


To Ride the Gathering Storm

by johnsarmylady



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: And if so for whom?, BOTFA Re-Imagined, Final realisation, M/M, Unrequited Love?, Will it be too late?, bagginshield
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4959817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins gave the Arkenstone to Thorin's enemies in an effort to save him from the madness that had taken hold of him, but his actions backfired, and Thorin banished him from Erebor. Taking his courage in his hands he shows the dwarf king how he feels before turning his back on his friends and joining Gandalf in Dale. A re-imagining of BOTFA. Bagginshield</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Confessions and Consequences

**Author's Note:**

> I have a great fondness for the Hobbit in all it's forms, but especially the Peter Jackson films, so here is my second foray into the world of Middle Earth, only this one is quite unashamedly Bagginshield, and will be rated M from the start because I know where I want this to go. I hope you'll take the journey with me, but if it's not your cup of tea then I understand that too, and may see you in another universe...

The company stood looking on in horror, guessing Thorin’s next move would be to thrust their burglar over the parapet. Not one of them expected what happened next.

As the King’s hands tangled in Bilbo’s clothing the hobbit flung himself backwards pulling the dwarf off balance, and then using his weight advantage Bilbo swung him around and slammed him against a stone pillar. Before he had a chance to regain his breath Thorin’s mouth was covered by warm questing lips.

Bilbo stepped back, breathless, staring up into the dwarf King’s wide eyes.

“If you are going to kill me for trying to prevent the Dragon-sickness from destroying everything you have fought for,” he said calmly. “Then you will at least know, before I die, how I feel about you.”

Below them, outside the ruined gates of Erebor, Gandalf sat alongside King Thranduil and Bard the Dragonslayer, waiting for the next move. The silence from within the stronghold was ominous, yet neither man nor elf said a word, both looking to the wizard to take the lead.

“Thorin Oakenshield!” Gandalf’s voice boomed upwards, reverberating through the very stones of Erebor. “I insist that, if you have no further use for him, you return the burglar into my safekeeping.”

It was almost a shock-wave of sound and for the dwarves, standing frozen as they were at the turn of events, it was a catalyst to move.

As one Fili and Kili leapt forward to stand between their uncle and the unfortunate halfling.

“Let him go.” Kili pleaded softly.

“Uncle…”

Drawing himself up to full height Thorin pushed the two young dwarves aside and glared down into Bilbo’s dark blue eyes.

“Get out, traitor.” He snarled. “You are no longer welcome in Erebor.” He watched as Bilbo swallowed yet bravely kept his head held high. “The next time we meet I’ll spit you on Orcrist and feed your carcass to the Orcs and Wargs.”

Giving a brief nod of his head the Hobbit took another step back, and turning to grab the rope he had hidden amongst the stone pillars flung the loose end over the parapet. With a last anguished look back at the company Bilbo hopped up onto the defensive structure, then lowered himself down to the waiting wizard as swiftly as he dared.

xXx

It was a silent group that returned to encampment within and around Dale. Sitting up behind Gandalf on the back of his pony, Bilbo wondered if things would have been different – better – if he’d confessed his feelings for Thorin earlier. As it was he couldn’t be sure that the stubborn dwarf king had recognised the kiss for what it was; a declaration of love, a promise to be there for him, a vow of friendship.

No, Bilbo shook his head at his own fancies, the sickness was too strong, and it held Thorin tightly in its thrall.

Bard dropped back to ride alongside him.

“Are you well Master Baggins?” he asked, his eyes full of concern.

Bilbo forced a smile.

“I’m fine.” He said. “And at least I’m alive – I might have known how he’d react…”

“Oakenshield has his grandfather’s sickness.” Bard gestured towards Thranduil. “He saw its birth in Thror before the dragon attacked, I’ve seen it in the Master.”

“Gold fever?” Glancing over his shoulder Bilbo could see those he’d once called friends watching as they retreated. “I had hoped he was stronger than that.”

Bard grimaced.

“That was a brave decision you took, to give away the Arkenstone, especially...” he paused and looked down at the Hobbit. “Especially when you feel the way you do about him.” This last was said so softly that Bilbo almost convinced himself that he’d imagined it, but when he glanced across he could see pity in the man’s eyes.

Was he really so transparent? He wondered if Thorin had known, if he had dismissed it as unwanted or just a means to an end. Had he used Bilbo’s feelings to ensure his continued help? Would the dwarf king be that cruel?

Looking away he said nothing, there was after all nothing he could say, and as to airing his feelings in public, well he’d done enough of that for one day.

xXx

The once merry band of displaced dwarves returned to the lower halls, their search for the Arkenstone no longer necessary – they knew exactly where it was, had seen the undisguised glee in Thranduil’s hooded eyes as he watched realisation dawn on Thorin’s face.

Warily they avoided the throne room, the King’s room, where Thorin now sat brooding over the loss of his grandfather’s jewel.

“I can’t believe Bilbo really believed he could take the Arkenstone as his fourteenth share.” Dori shook his head, bewildered.

“Nor did he laddie.” Balin paused on his way to their shared sleeping area. “He saw it, long before I realised what was happening. He saw the madness descending, and tried to protect Thorin from himself.”

“Did he mean what he said? About his feelings and….and everything?” Ori had come to look up to Bilbo, or as much as the taller young dwarf could look up to someone over a foot shorter than he. The hobbit had never made fun of him, nor belittled his skills with a slingshot, and he always surprised them with his courage and fortitude.

And Ori’s soft heart ached for the loss of the friend, and that friend’s lost love.

He suddenly realised that Bofur was speaking, cursing soundly and kicking at the gold beneath their feet.

“…that even I could see it!” he huffed angrily. “Thorin was never before so shortsighted.”

“It seems I was.” A deep quiet voice spoke from the far end of the room. “I thought he understood our quest, I thought he was as trustworthy as Gandalf had promised, but it seems I was taken in by both of them. This I should have known, when the wizard insisted on seeking help from the elves in Rivendell.”

“Without Elrond’s help we would never have known where to look for the door.” Balin pointed out reasonably.

“And without the halfling’s treachery I could have claimed my birthright, we could have reclaimed our home without fear of challenge.”

“No one would challenge you…”

“Yes Dwalin – there are many who would challenge my right to this.” He waved a hand around him at the gold and precious stones. “Some would even say that this was theirs to share.”

“Thranduil.” Nori said to no-one in particular.

“And the men of Lake Town.” Gloin grumbled.

“No, wait!” Fili stood up, glaring at his companions. “Suddenly this is all Bilbo’s fault? Thranduil would always have tried to stake a claim, and uncle, you promised the people of Lake Town that they would share in the riches of Erebor! Bilbo gave his…” Fili’s voice trailed off as he realised what he was about to say. That their feisty little burglar had put his word, his honour, on the line for them; staked his honour for Thorin’s sake.

“Bilbo gave his word that you could be trusted.” Kili finished his brother’s sentence, not daring to raise his eyes to his uncles face – he didn’t want to see the madness there.

“Bah!” Thorin spat. “He’s nothing, a mere tool in our quest, and his word, his honour means little compared to that of the dwarves of Erebor. I told Gandalf that I would not, could not be responsible for him, and my earlier suspicions that he would be nothing but a plague and a hindrance to us has been proven. I’ll hear no more about him!”

xXx

In the Elven King’s settlement outside the ruined gates of Dale a fierce quarrel was raging.

“You should have left it to me!” Gandalf thumped his fist on the table. “He might have killed Mister Baggins!”

A cool eyebrow was raised as Thranduil looked down his nose at Bilbo.

“My concern is not for one life, but for many.” He said with a careless wave of his hand towards where the survivors from Lake Town and the contingent of his Elven army were making the most of the shelter of the ruined city, sharing out food and blankets, working together despite their natural suspicion of each other’s race. “And as I said, this tame burglar of yours was foolish enough to free the dwarves from my cells – did he really expect them to treat him well once they had what they had come for?”

During this discussion he had been examining the loose threads in his trousers, but now Bilbo’s head shot up and he glared at the tall slender creature sitting opposite him.

“Thorin Oakenshield is an honourable dwarf.” He declared angrily. “He’s just…”

“Just what?”

“Tired, overwrought, and yes, probably ill, but he’s far more honourable than many I have met in my travels!”

“And you have travelled so far, so often.”

Thranduil’s tone, although meant to deflate the little creature, just made Bilbo angrier.

“I have travelled sufficiently to know honour and courage when I see it, as well as I know deceit and dishonesty.” His eyes narrowed pointedly. “I also recognise when a race chooses to be self-serving, caring only for themselves and no-one else.”

Reference to Thranduils refusal to concern himself over the fate and welfare of others bit into the elven King’s pride, but not a flicker of his thoughts crossed his countenance.

“This is getting us nowhere.” Bard interrupted the argument. “I know nothing of past selfish behaviour, nor why Thorin Oakenshield hates the whole of elf-kind, what I do know is that my people will starve or die of exposure if we do not have money to buy food and supplies with which to re-build Dale.”

“Your people?” Gandalf drawled softly. “Are you claiming sovereignty over the men of Lake Town?”

“No,” Blowing out a breath of pure frustration Bard sat back in his chair. “But they seem to think that I am the man for the job.” He laughed mirthlessly. “And all I want is to see my children safe and to go about my business, such as it is.”

The wizard nodded.

“You are in an unenviable position then my friend.” He said sagely. “If you succeed in solving their problems you are stuck with a job you’d rather not have. But if you fail…” His bushy eyebrows rose. “Why then you become a target for their anger – and there is nothing safe about that for your family.”

While man, elf and wizard continued to argue about how to deal with the oncoming winter and the unhappy stalemate with the King under the Mountain, Bilbo slipped out of the tent and walked off into the fading daylight, intent on nothing more than finding himself a quiet spot to think.

And think he did. Sitting just outside the encampment, but within sight of the elven guards, Bilbo let his thoughts wander back to the days after their rescue from the Orcs, when the eagles had carried them to the eerie high above the Great River of Wilderland, before ever they thought of traversing Mirkwood.

Thorin’s apology for his doubts, his final acceptance of the hobbit as one of their number had gladdened the little creature’s heart, and he had smiled even as he had choked down the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He had known even then that the strong, dark haired, _magnificent_ dwarf king had stolen his affections, and he would not have had it any other way.

Now, as he stared across the land that Balin had referred to as the desolation of Smaug, Bilbo truly understood the meaning of desolation. The soft hearted Baggins side of him wished that Thorin had thrown him to his death, while his Took blood argued that where there was life there was hope, and there was still adventure to be had in trying to win the king’s good favour once more.

A soft hand dropped lightly onto his shoulder, and he looked up to see a captain of Thranduil’s guard standing behind him, a strange look on her face.

“Why are you alone, Halfling? Have you been ejected from the peace talks?” Tauriel asked.

“No,” Bilbo shrugged. “Ejected from Erebor. I took myself away from the talks because King Thranduil and I have opposing views on honour.”

Tauriel’s laugh was light, pleasant.

“A wise move then.” After a moment her eyes moved towards the Lonely Mountain. “I trust Kili and his friends returned safe home?”

The hobbit glanced up swiftly at her use of the young prince’s name, but in the fading light her ethereally beautiful face gave no sign that her question was anything other than politeness.

“Yes… yes he did – they all did – thanks, I understand, to you.”

“He was…”

“Dying. Yes, Oin told me. I know his uncle is grateful for your skill and kindness.”

At that Tauriel looked down, a smile lightening her face.

“Is he really? Did he tell you that himself?”

Bilbo blushed.

“Well, not in so many words.” He replied. “But it’s easy to see if you know what you’re looking for. He loves those boys as if they were his own sons.”

“And they him?”

“And they him.” The hobbit agreed softly.

The elf captain and the hobbit let the silence settle around them, both staring off towards the rapidly darkening mountain.

From within the glow of torchlight turned the battlements a soft orange colour, although from where they were it was just a mere line of light within the shadowed landscape.

Tauriel left the Halfling to his thoughts, slipping away as silently as she had come and pausing only to instruct the guard to keep watch over little creature.

Unmoving, Bilbo continued to stare at the dwarves lost-and-found home of Erebor, until the night was so black it covered even the torchlight from within.

xXx

Alone amidst the piles of gold and jewels Thorin Oakenshield sulked.

That was the only word for what he was doing – refusing to join his nephews and his friends, choosing to sit alone atop his uncomfortable mountain of riches and brood about the loss of a solitary stone. The Arkenstone.

Not any old stone, he argued to himself, but the stone of kings, the stone which, had he taken possession of it, would have proved beyond doubt his claim to his grandfather’s throne.

Instead, with his back to that same throne he let the coins and precious stones trickle through his fingers, every now and then clenching his fist as if imagining the halfling’s neck within his grasp.

The Halfling.

Thorin couldn’t bring himself to even think the hobbit’s name, let alone say it out loud, so all-consuming was his anger towards the little burglar.

For the hundredth time since the treachery had been confessed the dwarf king wondered why. What had he done to deserve such betrayal?

He frowned then, and ran the tips of his fingers across his lips.

The hobbit had surprised him with his strength and cunning, throwing him off balance when he was trying to throw him off the parapet! If he wasn’t so angry Thorin might even have seen the funny side of the skinny little thing getting the better of a trained warrior like that.

And even his anger couldn’t wipe out the feeling of soft lips against his, the merest hint of tongue flickering across his lower lip before being withdrawn.

And his words.

His cheeks felt strangely warm as he remembered, but he put the heat down to the flickering torchlight as he tried to convince himself that the only feelings between himself and the Halfling were not good feelings, surely? But then, if that were true why the kiss?

It made his head ache trying to puzzle it out, and leaping to his feet he grabbed a handful of gold and flung it across the chamber.

And it was Bofur’s misfortune to, at that very moment walk in to said chamber. He cursed roundly as he ducked the flying coins.

“What do you want?” the dwarf king roared, more angry now because he had been caught in an act of pure frustration.

“Balin sent me to tell you there is food for you if you want it.”

Thorin frowned at him.

“Food?”

“You know, the stuff you eat? Fills yer belly and makes fighting a damn sight easier.” Bofur was almost as angry as Thorin himself. “It’s the last of the decent food, after that we’re down to hard biscuits and thin ale, so if you don’t want your share we’ll dole it out between us.”

With a roar like a wounded animal Thorin threw himself at the other dwarf.

“How dare you speak to me like that?” His hands were around Bofur’s throat before he knew it, but the other dwarf fought back.

“Or what?” he yelled, his voice echoing around the chamber. “You’ll banish me too? Or kill me?”

Drawing in a steadying breath Bofur stepped away.

“Thorin, you need all the allies you can get. We both know that Azog won’t rest until he’s wiped out Durin’s line. Just… come and eat. The lads need to know that you’re still with us.”

“Azog!” Thorin snarled

Giving the dwarf king a shove Bofur herded him from the room.

“Come on.” He commanded. “Food.”

xXx

On the battlements Gloin and Nori shared the watch, leaning on the stone parapet and drawing gently on their pipes.

“What do you think he’s doing now?”

They both knew of whom Nori spoke.

“With Gandalf and the others, enjoying some real food, I imagine.”

“What do you think he meant about Thorin knowing how he felt?”

Gloin nearly choked on his pipe.

“For the love of Mahal, are you determined to be stupid? Did you not see the way the Halfling looked at him?”

“Hero-worship.” Nori shrugged.

“Bah!” Gloin spat back. “Hero worship? That little hobbit has more heroism in his little finger than the rest of us put together.” He held up a hand to forestall Nori’s denials. “We fight, that’s what we do! There’s none more skilled nor more willing than our company, but Bilbo Baggins isn’t a dwarf – he isn’t a fighter. In fact, I didn’t expect him to last past the first set-back or mis-hap, but he saved us from the trolls, who knows how he managed to get out of the goblin caves unscathed, and then look at how he took on a warg to save Thorin’s life!”

Gloin gazed for a moment towards the distant lights of Dale.

“Did you not notice?” he asked eventually. “His eyes would follow Thorin around, and there was a look in them, when he thought Thorin couldn’t see him….reminds me of the way I’ve caught my wife looking at me.” He thought for a moment then chuckled. “Fond exasperation, and a heavy dose of love.”

Now it was Nori’s turn to choke.

“Love?” he spluttered.

“Aye.” Gloin said quietly. “And don’t you pretend you didn’t know.”

Nori’s lip curled in a sneer, but he held his peace and the two resumed their watch.

A little while later, Gloin was rudely jabbed in the ribs by Nori’s elbow.

“I wasn’t asleep.” He spluttered.

“Whether you were or you weren’t is no matter.” Nori replied. “What do you think is going on over there?”

They both peered into the distance.

A single light had detached itself from the edge of the lights of Dale and was moving slowly towards and slightly to the left of the Lonely Mountain.

It didn’t travel far, but stopped for several long moments before returning once more to the ruined city.

Gloin shrugged.

“Nothing I’ll wager, just a guard stretching his legs a bit.”

With a slight huff Nori nodded and turned away to refill his pipe.

If either dwarf had been gifted with night vision they would have seen, on the periphery of Dale an Elven captain and tall wizard.

Tauriel led Gandalf to where she had left Bilbo, and there on the rocks they found him curled in a tight ball, his blue robe pulled close around him, fast asleep.

The Elf held the torch while Gandalf crouched down beside his burglar. He looked exhausted, and far too pale even in the yellow flame, and so very gently the wizard lifted him up and carried him back to shelter and a makeshift bed.

Tonight was no night to be sleeping alone in the dark – Gandalf knew it was only a matter of time before this quiet interlude ended.

 

 


	2. An Exile from Madness

Bilbo woke slowly, warmer and more comfortable than he had been since they had left Rivendell. For a moment he failed to recall where he might be, or the events of the previous day, but soon enough the memories came flooding back.

Heavy of heart he burrowed deeper into the blankets, turning his face away from the daylight that cracked its way into his tent.

“Oh, so you’re awake at last.”

The hobbit didn’t reply, he just lay in his snug nest, his eyes tightly closed.

“Bilbo Baggins, stop hiding in your bed. Up! Up I say, and face the day.”

“Leave me be Gandalf, I want no more of your adventures.” Bilbo sighed. “I should never have left the shire.”

“Pish!” a thin bony hand grasped the edge of the blanket, and before Bilbo could stop him the wizard had whisked away his covers. “You’re just feeling sorry for yourself.”

Indignantly the small creature glared at Gandalf’s bland expression, before noticing a small bowl in the wizards other hand.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Breakfast.” Gandalf smiled. “Or to be precise _your_ breakfast.”

Bilbo’s stomach gave a loud, appreciative growl.

“Now Mr Baggins, it may not be your usual breakfast fare, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it nonetheless.” He handed over the bowl.

“Fish and vegetable stew for breakfast?” a smile at last found its way onto Bilbo’s face.

“I’d wager your great gran-uncle Bullroarer Took never broke his fast with fish stew!”

“Of course he didn’t. I have become far more disreputable than even the worst of my Took forebears.”

“Nonsense.” Gandalf seated himself on a stool that was far too small for him, and let the silence settle around them as Bilbo, his appetite returning with each spoonful of the hearty meal, made short work of the chunks of fish and tender vegetables, mopping the remains of the liquid with a hunk of bread that had materialised as if by magic from the other’s satchel.

When the meal was finished Bilbo climbed to his feet and Joined Gandalf at the doorway, standing at his side as they watched the comings and goings of men and elves.

“I think my work here is done Gandalf, I believe it’s time I went home.”

The wizard looked down into the hobbits sad face, a face still pale under his mop of unruly russet hair.

“Thranduil’s son arrived but an hour back, fresh from chasing the Orcs that attacked Fili, Kili, Oin and Bofur while they remained behind in Lake Town.”

“Attacked?” Bilbo stared back aghast. “Kili said nothing of an attack.”

“And of course, you had so much time to talk while they searched for the stone you stole.”

“I didn’t steal it! I took it in place of my fourteenth share. Thorin…” the name choked him, and he turned away blinking away tears as he tried to drag his emotions back in check.

“Yes, Thorin. And what exactly do you intend to do about the King under the Mountain?”

“Do?” Bilbo couldn’t look Gandalf in the eye, so he hid behind indignation and bluster. “Why should I ‘do’ anything? He has made his position clear…”

“As did you, I trust?” the wizard asked, his voice taking on a knowing edge. “Did you tell him how you feel?”

Not deigning to answer him the hobbit just turned to stare out at the movement within the fledgling settlement.

xXx

Legolas Greenleaf sat at the round table in his father’s tent facing the King. Bard sat to one side of him, and an empty chair stood on the other side.

“Do we wait for the wizard Father?” he asked, glancing towards the tent doorway.

“He will join us momentarily – he has gone to check on that ridiculous Halfling burglar of his.”

“Master Baggins is not ridiculous.” Gandalf’s voice drifted in from outside, followed closely by the wizard himself. “You, King Thranduil, are simply a bad loser – you cannot forgive him for sneaking past your guards and freeing the prisoners.” Sweeping around the table he sat in the empty chair and turned his head to give the young elf prince his attention.

“What has brought you here in such a hurry Legolas?”

“Orcs.” The young elf spoke up. “The ones that attacked the dwarves in Lake Town were led by Bolg, that filthy spawn of Azog.”

“This was the Orc you chassed from my house?” Bard leaned forward, his eyes locked on Legolas’.

“He had called off his mindless scum when he realised that the dwarf king was no longer in the town, but he didn’t travel towards Erebor as I expected him to.” The elf took a drink from his cup of wine. “And I wanted to know why he wasn’t finishing what he had started.”

“And he went to Dol Guldur?”

“I almost stopped following him when I realised that there was no other place he could be heading, but there was something…” he glanced around the table. “I can’t say what it was, but I knew I needed to be absolutely sure.”

“Dol Guldur is not a place to visit alone at any time.” Gandalf said almost thoughtfully.

“I didn’t exactly visit.” Legolas grimaced. “I kept to the cover of rocks and shrubbery, and got as close as I dared. What I saw there made me turn back to Lake Town to warn the people – it seems I was too late. Deprived of its destruction, the army gathering at Dol Guldur will now, I believe, make straight for Erebor, and those forces I saw already outnumber us significantly.”

“You were not too late at all, my son.” Thranduil tapped his fingers on the table. “This was the work of Smaug, the result of the dwarves escaping.” He glared at Gandalf, who chose to ignore the barbed comment.

“So what now?” asked Bard. “Can we get help?”

“My people will stand with you.” Thranduil promised. “But as for others, I don’t believe we have the time to gather allies.”

The man nodded his thanks.

“Azog has sworn to destroy the line of Durin,” Legolas added. “And he will know by now that Thorin Oakenshield has reclaimed the mountain.”

Gandalf sat deep in thought, turning possibilities over in his mind. But Bard however slammed his hand down on the table.

“So we are to be caught in a trap between those damned dwarves and an army of Orcs! Wasn’t loosing that dragon on us enough for the King?”

Outside the tent Bilbo listened to the argument going back and forth between the three races. A frown drew his brows together. Azog? What chance would the company have?

Unwilling to listen to more haranguing and accusations he turned to go back to his tent when he spotted Tauriel watching him from a little way across the camp. He smiled at her, and she nodded back in greeting before moving away to speak to several elves under her command.

Bilbo watched her go, wondering vaguely if she would be able to give him some advice – then he shook his head at his own stupidity. What could he, a mere hobbit burglar do that Dwarven warriors, Elven soldiers and armed men could not?

‘ _You can hide and not be seen, precious._ ’ The voice inside his head sounded suspiciously familiar.

“Shut up!” he snapped, then caught himself. Wasn’t that what Gollum had done? Talked to himself and then answered back? Nervously he fingered the ring in his pocket.

“Bilbo.”

“Oh! Gandalf, you made me jump!”

“You were daydreaming again.” The wizard chuckled. “I do hope you’re not dreaming of your books and your armchair, your roaring fire in the winter and your seven meals a day.”

“Actually, I was thinking of exactly that, Gandalf.” The hobbit lied smoothly, smiling, but then the smile faded from his face. “Please don’t tell me you’ve found another grand enterprise to share with me – I’ve had more than enough to last a lifetime.”

He could see that his attempt at a joke had fallen flat.

Gandalf continued to look kindly at him and didn’t reply, choosing instead to fill his pipe. Lighting it, he offered it to the Halfling, and Bilbo accepted gratefully, letting the smoke drift where it may and not caring for his usual pastime of making smoke rings.

“I’m afraid Azog’s army is likely to stand between us and the Shire – we may not get through.”

“So what do we do?”

“We wait.” Gandalf said. “We stay here. There is, after all, safety in numbers.”

Bilbo glanced back towards the Lonely Mountain.

“And what of the company?” He handed back the pipe.

“Ah yes, the company. Well, I have sent a raven to them.” The wizard admitted. With instructions to tell as many of the company as he can. It would be unwise,” he added, seeing Bilbo’s look of surprise, “to rely upon Thorin Oakenshield to respond favourably, if they are to have any chance at survival they must all be told.”

xXx

Within the dark and cavernous halls of Erebor the company of Thorin Oakenshield was silently, sullenly going about its business, half-heartedly surveying the damage done to this once glorious city within the mountain.

The King himself was standing on the battlements, staring out towards Long Lake and the charred remains of Lake Town. If he stared hard enough, he was sure he could see the rotting corpse of the misbegotten fire drake. His eyes hardened and his upper lip curled in a sneer. It seemed that now they were calling that man ‘dragon-slayer’, but the real hero, the one who had breached the mountain and faced down the intruder, the pretender to the ‘Throne under the Mountain was…

A picture formed unbidden in his mind of a slender body on sturdy legs with ridiculously hairy feet creeping down the passageway, of Balin giving some last minute advice and encouragement before leaving the hobbit to continue… alone…

But he wasn’t alone, was he? He, Thorin Oakenshield, the rightful king and his company of dwarves, they were there, they were the ones who brought the dragon down, coated him in gold and…

“Uncle?”

Fili’s voice broke the spell, dispelled the vision from in front of Thorin’s eyes, and he looked down at the hand clasping his forearm.

“What’s wrong Uncle? Is something happening over there?”

“No, all is quiet – too quiet.”

Fili frowned as the older dwarf continued.

“They will come Fili, the men and elves, they will come to take Erebor.”

“no Uncle, the raven…”

“Raven?”

“The one Gandalf sent…”

“Never mention that charlatan wizard to me again!” Thorin thundered. “He has chosen to take the side of our enemies.”

They’re saying that Azog has mustered an army, and they are marching on us from Dol Guldur.”

“They said we would never regain our home.” The king gestured meaningfully behind him, to the halls of the city.

“Bilbo was certain we would get it back.” Fili replied quietly. “He has faith in Gandalf – maybe we should take a leaf out of his book.”

“That Halfling is as untrustworthy…”

“Balin said he was just misguided, he said Bilbo didn’t realise…”

“Of course he knew!” the king spat angrily. “Everybody was searching for the Arkenstone, and he stole it. Stole it and gave it into the hands of those other pointy-eared…”

Standing listening in the shadows the younger Durin heir felt his anger rising. Whatever his uncle’s experience of elves – and if he was honest, until now he had allowed his own view to be tainted by his uncle’s prejudice – it was a she-elf that had saved his life, both from the poisoned Orc arrowhead and the hunting party that had followed them to the town on the lake.

Stalking away, Kili went in search of Dwalin.

He found the warrior dwarf sitting talking quietly to his brother, and both of them started guiltily when they realised they were no longer alone.

“Dwalin, can you talk some sense into Thorin?” the young dwarf blurted out.

Dwalin gazed at him narrow eyes, then shook his head.

“Do you not think we’ve tried lad? He won’t listen to anyone.”

“And now with this latest news of Azog,” Balin added, looking unhappily at his companions, “I fear we must take matters into our own hands.”

“Brother.” Dwalin growled warningly, his hard eyes flicking towards the king’s nephew.

“No he’s right, there must be something we can do.”

“There may be.” Balin spoke softly. “Kili, would you be willing to go to Dale?”

Kili stared, his dark eyes searching the other’s kindly face, looking for some idea of what he had in mind.

“I will take the watch as night falls. If you are willing to take yourself to Dale to get more information, and maybe send a raven to Thorin’s cousin Dain Ironfoot, then Dwalin and I will cover for you should your uncle come looking.”

“I will go.” Kili agreed, “but how?”

Moving closer to his companions, Dwalin lowered his voice.

“You will need to use the burglar’s rope, climb down and make the journey on foot.”

Balin nodded, adding “You’ll have to move fast. We don’t know how long you’ll have between Thorin looking for you, and Azog looking for Thorin.”

Sighing, Kili fiddled with the fastenings of one of his wristbands.

“Why is my uncle like this?” he asked finally, sounding very much younger than his years. “Surely after all he has done to get Erebor back…” his voice trailed off and he gave the Fundin brothers a puzzled stare.

“’tis gold-sickness boy, his grandfather suffered with it – and who knows if he would have passed through it or simply become more erratic had Smaug not chosen to take what belonged to Durin’s folk.” The warrior kicked a small pile of goblets and gold plates. “But Kili, you cannot let yourself get caught up worrying about this, you need to bring us news, and support from our kinfolk.”

xXx

Darkness had only just fallen when Balin replaced Bifur as watchman, and as soon as he was certain that the coast was clear he flung the rope over the battlements and motioned Kili to join him. After a few last minute whispered words of encouragement and instruction Balin held the rope steady while Kili hopped up onto the wall, waved a very brief farewell and lowered himself swiftly down.

For a long the white haired dwarf followed the youngster’s progress towards Dale, watching him until the he faded from sight, swallowed up by the darkness of the deserted road. In his eagerness to keep Kili in sight for as long as possible Balin moved away from the rope, further along the parapet to make good use of the cloud-misted moonlight.

When at last he was sure he could no longer make out the slender dark shape trotting briskly away Balin returned to the rope, hauling it back in and stowing it away once more then he settled down for his turn of duty. Dwalin would be his relief watchman in a few hours, and Gloin – who had been entrusted with the secret plan – had agreed to make sure that Thorin didn’t miss Kili’s presence.

However, there was more going on in Erebor than met the eye.

xXx

After his talk with Gandalf Bilbo had wandered away, avoiding the tents of the elves and the little encampment of those men who couldn’t find sufficient shelter within the ruins. Instead, he found himself moving between the ruined walls and fallen stones of Dale.

It was here that the elderly, the women and the children were housed, finding warmth and a small degree of comfort in the remaining standing houses. Some were patched up with grass and branches to prevent the wind whistling through holes in roofs, and all would need to be made weather proof come the winter, but it pleased the little hobbit to see that the men had at least got their priorities right.

Inevitably, he found himself at the furthest point from the tents, on the edge of Dale that overlooked the road to Erebor. A brief look around was enough to assure him that he was entirely alone, and his fingers slipped instinctively into his pocket.

The ring was on his finger before he had even given a second thought to his actions, and in the knowledge that no-one would see or follow him he set out on the lonely path to where his former companions were shut away with their gold, their jewels, and their king’s madness.

 _‘Of course’_ he thought to himself as he picked his way along the rocky path. _‘There’s no way I can go to Thorin and talk some sense into him even if I wanted to. He’d kill me as soon as look at me, but I can’t even get in for him to have the opportunity to look at me!’_

With a huff of exasperated amusement Bilbo walked the rest of the way in silence, refusing his thoughts entry to his aching head and concentrating solely on putting one foot in front of the other until the barricaded gates of Erebor were a mere stone’s throw away.

As he stood watching, he saw Ori walking the battlements, on watch, and he saw the moment the youngest dwarf of the company suddenly jumped, startled, and looked to his left.

Thorin!

Bilbo couldn’t take his eyes from the majestic dark haired dwarf, and although he couldn’t clearly see the expression on his face he felt once more the chill of that mad stare.

“Oh Thorin,” he whispered to himself. “Would that I could take this sickness away from you.”

Settling down eventually on a fallen piece of masonry, Bilbo sat and watched as one by one his friends came and went along the high stone walkway, some to take watch, some to just share a moment with a brother, a cousin, a comrade. He watched while Bifur and Bofur shared a quiet moment together over a pipe as they looked out over the desolate landscape, and his heart ached for what he had lost, willingly thrown away, in order to broker a peace between men, elves and the dwarves of Erebor.

Lost in the memories he had of their journey – the good, the bad, and the downright ridiculous – he shuffled lower down amongst the fallen stones, finding shelter from the chill wind as daylight faded to night.

And with the coming of darkness Bilbo had just made his mind up to go back and find himself some supper when a movement at the nearest end of the parapet made him doubt at least one of his senses.

Balin was standing looking directly down at the broken ground at the foot of the old entrance to the city, as if seeking something specific, then in the next moment he flung down the very rope that Bilbo had used to escape to safety. Hard on that movement came another that had Bilbo’s jaw dropping in surprise – Kili hopped up onto the battlements and seconds later was lowering himself to the ground.

Of their own volition Bilbo’s feet carried him forward until he stood right beside the rope, praying to every God of the Shire folk to keep this hot-headed young dwarf safe.

Once on solid ground Kili stepped away from the rope, turning swiftly to jog along the very road that Bilbo had travelled earlier. Not giving himself a moment to think about going with Kili to make sure he stayed safe, nor to consider the foolhardiness of his subsequent actions grabbed at the thick length of hemp and started to climb with as much care as he could , while watching as Balin leaned over to watch the king’s nephew until he was out of sight.

He had barely managed to scramble over the edge and jump safely onto the walkway when Balin walked towards him and grabbed the rope, hastily pulling it up and stowing it away behind the ornate pillar that Bilbo had chosen to dodge behind. The hobbit held his breath as the white haired dwarf looked around with a frown, as if he was missing something, then moved away to pace the battlements.

With a final glance around him Bilbo set off in search of Thorin Oakenshield. His mind was made up – he was going to talk some sense into that bone-headed, irritating, brave and fascinating dwarf if it was the last thing he did… and realistically, he thought it probably would be.

 


	3. The Gathering Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! I've been playing around with the latest chapter when I realised that I hadn't posted this one! What can I say? Sorry seems inadequate :(

Bofur looked up, unsure of quite what it was that had spooked him, but spooked he certainly was.

“What?” Oin looked across at him.

“Nothing.” The toymaker looked around, and then added “Actually – did you feel that?

“Feel what?”

“I don’t know.” Bofur looked confused.

“No more drink for you.” Dwalin walked past him and snatched away his tankard. “Maybe being kegged for a century and a half has increased its potency.”

“No, it’s not the ale, it’s more likely…”

“More likely what? Bombur plopped himself down beside his brother and drank deeply from his own tankard.

“These halls are haunted.” There was quiet conviction in Bofurs voice. “It’s not just infected with gold sickness, there’s the weight of loss here, our ancestors cannot rest.”

Bifur grumbled at him in Khuzdul, but Dwalin just laughed.

“You’re getting fanciful Bofur, there’s nothing down here but ruin and degradation.”

“He’s right,” piped up Ori, “We’ve laid the dead to rest as befits them.”

“But they lay abandoned for far too long!”!

While the argument spun round and around between the six dwarves Bilbo stood in the shadows, his breathing gradually returning to normal. He had forgotten that while they couldn’t see him, that didn’t mean that they couldn’t hear him in the hollowly echoing rooms, or feel him as a breath of air passing by. It was a timely reminder, for he was about to enter the chamber where he had first confronted Smaug, the treasure chamber where – according to earlier conversation he had overheard – Thorin was morosely brooding over his lost stone.

And the treasure chamber was exactly the wrong place for a would-be invisible hobbit to sneak into, with its loose coin and jewels, its golden goblets and plates.

Bilbo was already regretting acting on impulse and climbing back into Erebor. The irony of this was not lost on him, for he wouldn’t be in this predicament at all if he hadn’t acted on impulse that morning in Bag End.

Slipping through the arched doorway Bilbo moved quietly towards the chamber. If he was totally honest with himself it was not only the adventure that he couldn’t find it in him to regret. Bilbo would never want to change the feelings that had taken up residence in his heart for the dwarf king, only the way in which those feelings were communicated – he would have preferred to tell Thorin quietly, honestly and privately, friend to friend, and maybe, eventually, lover to lover.

However now was not the time to worry about such things, he had promised himself that he would speak to Thorin, and speak he would… the question was how to approach him. And unfortunately for Bilbo that decision was taken out of his hands the minute he set eyes on him.

Thorin was sitting beside one of the fallen stone pillars muttering to himself, his deep voice carrying clearly to the hobbits sharp ears.

“They have betrayed me! My own people - they have sided with that blasted wizard and his familiar – that hobbit! How dare they? I’ll kill them, all of them.”

Thorin’s voice was rising steadily, and a cold desperate fear clutched at Bilbo’s sore heart. Without thought for the fact that he was still wearing the ring he leapt forward into the slippery, sliding mountain of treasure.

“Thorin no, please! Your family…!”

“Who’s there?” the dwarf roared, struggling to his feet. He put a hand against the pillar to steady him as he stared wildly at the displaced and still moving coins. “Show yourself!”

Bilbo was about to remove the gold band and reveal himself when Dwalin, having heard his friend’s shout burst into the chamber, battle axes in hand.

Wild eyed, Thorin glared at him.

“So, have you come to kill me cousin?” He demanded. “Do you plan to claim the throne as your own?” Staggering slightly as his boots slipped in the loose piles of gold, the King drew his sword – Orcrist, the elven blade stolen back from Thranduil by their hobbit burglar – and waved it at the shaven headed dwarf. “I’ll kill you before I let you take what is mine.”

Dwalin immediately dropped his weapons and raised his hands in submission.

“Thorin! I came because I heard you call – I thought you were being attacked…”

The dark haired dwarf just snarled and waved his sword menacingly at his kin. Standing no more than a few feet away Bilbo almost choked on the sadness that threatened to overwhelm him. His intention had been to try to persuade Thorin to listen to reason, to try to make him understand that the gold sickness what jeopardising everything that they had fought for, but it seemed he had only succeeded in setting him against his greatest friend and ally. Bilbo’s shoulders sagged with the weight of his failure.

As Thorin snarled accusations at his cousin the hobbit withdrew, carefully, so that he was no longer standing on a precarious moving mound of treasure and he watched as Dwalin backed away, leaving his battle axes where they had fallen.

Alone once more with the King, Bilbo waited, noting how lost Thorin looked, how empty his eyes – this was not the proud, arrogant dwarf that had walked into Bag End and called him a grocer, this dwarf was broken by sickness and his own irrational fears.

Into the silence Bilbo spoke again.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” he said softly. “War is coming. The storm is gathering beyond Erebor, beyond Dale and Mirkwood. Please, for your sister’s sons if not for yourself – make peace and join forces with those outside of the Lonely Mountain.”

Yet as he spoke the dwarf was looking around once more with a savage glow in his eyes. He knew he had been heard, but Thorin was not listening to his words.

“Get you gone from here, evil shades!” the King roared, clapping his hands over his ears. “I will not listen to your lies! Get you hence!”

The hobbit stood and stared, unwilling to acknowledge defeat even if Thorin would not listen he had to try one last time.

“Thorin, if you hear nothing else from me please hear this. You are not your grandfather, you are stronger than that – your quest has been fulfilled and you have reclaimed your home, but if you do not act soon you will lose everything, please…”

“Nooooo!” it was a raw scream, torn from the dwarf king’s throat as he swung Orcrist in a sweeping circle, spinning and turning in the unstable heap of treasure then falling, off balance, to land sprawling on his back amidst the clash and clatter of falling coin, his eyes filled with gold-lust, his voice screaming dwarvish curses.

 Bilbo sighed. He only hoped that whatever Kili was up to he would fare better in his endeavours. Creeping carefully back through the doorway, the small invisible creature slipped once more past Bofur and company – now discussing the Thorin’s increasingly erratic behaviour  – and made his way back to the battlements to await his chance to climb back down and return to Dale.

xXx

As he approached the outskirts of the camp at Dale Kili felt a moment’s uneasiness, knowing that as the youngest heir of the line of Durin he would make a fine hostage. It wasn’t often that he actually prayed to Mahal and really meant it, but as each step carried him closer to the camp guard he uttered every litany his mother had ever taught him. Straightening his shoulders, he puffed out his chest and tried to make himself look more confident than he actually felt as he marched up to the elven guard.

“I need you to take me to Gandalf the Grey.” He insisted.

No answer was forthcoming; the guard merely drew his sword and pointed it at the young dwarf.

Rolling his eyes Kili raised his hands to show that he was no threat.

“If you won’t take me to the wizard, then let me speak to your Captain, Tauriel.”

“And what do you want with Tauriel?” a voice spoke from beyond the glow of the torch’s flame.

“Who asks?” Kili called back, shielding his eyes and squinting into the darkness.

“My name is Legolas, my father is King Thranduil.”

“My name is Kili, I’m…”

“I know who you are, nephew of Thorin Oakenshield. What do you want with Tauriel?” the elven prince stepped up into the halo of light, his white blond hair shining in the torch’s glow.

“She…” Kili swallowed hard, and then met the other’s eyes. “She saved my life. Your guard here wouldn’t take me to Gandalf, so I thought she might take me, I hoped to plead my case with her.”

Legolas sniffed and looked down his aristocratic nose at the young dwarf.

“I’ll take you to the wizard; there is no need for you to speak with Tauriel.”

“But I’d…”

“I said there is no need to speak with her, now, if you wish to see Gandalf you will come with me.” And he stalked off without waiting to see if the dwarf was following.

Legolas didn’t bother to announce himself; he simply strode into the tent where Gandalf was enjoying a solitary meal.

“Kili,” A look of surprised delight spread across his wrinkled features. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Gandalf, we need your help!” Kili rushed forward, pushing past the elf prince and sitting on an upturned crate. “Thorin is…”

Gandalf held up a hand to silence the young prince, and then looked pointedly at Legolas.

“Thank you for escorting my friend,” he said politely. “And now we need a little privacy.”

The elf nodded, glared at Kili, and retreated. Gandalf divided the remains of his meal between two bowls, and handing one to his friend he continued with his own meal.

“Eat.” He said, and Kili raised the bowl to his lips, sipping hungrily at the thick liquid.

When they had both finished eating, and Gandalf had filled and lit his pipe, the wizard waved a hand at the young dwarf and asked him what problem had brought him out of Erebor.

“For I am certain,” he added with a smile “That your Uncle is not party to this, is he?”

“No, he isn’t.” Long dark hair hung down over Kili’s face as he stared at his hands. “Thorin’s losing control. He’s… he’s unstable – Balin and Dwalin sent me to you to get help.”

“For Thorin?”

“For all of us.” Turning fearful eyes up to Gandalf’s, Kili added “My uncle is more concerned with Bilbo’s deception than he is about the approaching battle, fretting more about his lost Arkenstone than about the army of Orcs with Azog at their head, bearing down upon us. I fear he will… well, we all fear for his sanity. He cannot fight in this frame of mind.”

“And what is it that you want from me? I cannot stop Azog, any more than I can cure your uncle of his sickness.”

“I know, but we thought you could get a raven sent to my uncle’s cousin Dain in the Iron Hills.”

“Yes, I can do this for you.” The wizard said kindly, “And I can keep you all informed as we receive news of the oncoming army – I trust if I send a raven to Erebor you will take heed of the news?”

“Of course.” Kili looked more than a little relieved. “I wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t taken heed of your last warning.”

“Of course.”

“I should get back.” The young dwarf stood and rubbed his hands down his breeches nervously. “How is Bilbo?”

Gandalf looked down at him for a long moment.

“He is safe.”

“But is he alright?”

“No Kili, he is far from alright. Your uncle’s actions have hurt him, and he too fears the sickness that has Thorin in its grip.” He shrugged and turned away. “Now he simply looks towards home - when I told him he would not be the same hobbit that left the shire if he joined this quest, I didn’t think for one moment that he would have his heart broken.”

“He truly cares for Thorin.”

“Yes he does.” Glancing back over his shoulder Gandalf said “Would you like to see him before you go back? I could take you to him.”

“I dare not, the company will distract Thorin from seeking me out, but I have no wish to anger him – I have been here too long already.”

Kili missed the look of relief on the wizard’s face.

“Then let me take you to the road back…”

“No, I’ll find my own way. You will send that raven, won’t you?”

“I will.” Gandalf held the tent flap and stood back for his guest to pass. “Good luck to you Kili.”

The young dwarf nodded his farewell and hurried away. He had bare gone four yards when slender fingers closed around his arm. He whirled round, his hand reaching automatically for his dagger.

“Kili.” Tauriel’s soft voice stopped him in his tracks. “I had word of your arrival, why are you here?”

Kili’s eyes devoured the sight of the she-elf.

“Tauriel.” He breathed. “Tauriel I…”

She looked down at him, her eyes shining in the moonlight.

“Why have you come Kili?” She asked again. “You are not safe here.”

“I came seeking Gandalf’s help and…” he paused and his eyes met hers. “…and I hoped to see you again.”

“Kili, we cannot… I must not… we…”

“I know. My uncle would have my head, so great is his mistrust of your people, but I cannot forget you.” His hand rose of its own volition, and his fingers stroked through her long red tresses. “You are…”

Her fingers rested against his lips, silencing his words. They stared at each other, enthralled, but the moment was shattered by a voice of command from behind the elven captain.

“Tauriel you will come with me.”

Tauriel didn’t take her eyes from the dark haired dwarf.

“One moment, my Lord.”

“Tauriel…”

“Kili…”

“Captain.” The speaker was standing at her shoulder now, his eyes on her profile, ignoring her companion. “You will leave the dwarf and come with me now.”

The she-elf blinked slowly, her face losing all softness as she turned around.

“Yes, my lord Legolas.” And without a backward glance she followed the King’s son.

Kili’s dark eyes watched her retreating figure until he could no longer see even a shadow of her in the darkness, then with a silent curse the princeling turned towards the road to Erebor.

xXx

Once Kili had departed Gandalf stood wondering. Bilbo had been conspicuous by his absence from the evening meal – the wizard had sought him out but he was nowhere to be seen. He was worried for his unhappy friend, but not for all the gold in Erebor would he have shared the depth of his concern with the prince, for he had enough worries of his own.

With a sigh he pushed his way out of his tent and with a glance around the darkened camp set out in search of Roac, chief of the Ravenhill ravens. The message to Dain Ironfoot was of great enough importance that he wanted to send only a trusted messenger.

xXx

Bilbo watched for Kili’s return, and was quick to spot movement on the road from Dale. He got ready, sitting on the wall near to where the rope would be thrown, he would have to be quick and shimmy down before the young dwarf began his ascent.

It was a close run thing, and the hobbit pressed himself against the wall to watch the prince return to his family, the turned his face towards Dale.

Out of sight of the dwarven stronghold Bilbo pulled the ring from his finger and slid it back into his pocket. Still light on his feet he made the journey back to the camp and slunk into his tent.

“And I suppose you expect me to believe that you have simply been taking the air?” Gandalf said drily, his voice making the small creature jump, startled.

“No, no.” Bilbo swallowed and stared at anything but the wizard currently sitting on the upturned wooden box that the hobbit had been using as a desk. “I… um…”

Gandalf’s eyebrows rose and he waited patiently. Bilbo slanted a glance at him.

“I’ve been out to the mountain.” He confessed eventually. “Just… well… just looking. Watching.”

“Watching?”

“Yes watching.” Bilbo sat down on his bed and let his shoulders slump dejectedly. “I saw Kili – was he coming to you for help?”

“He was.” Gandalf allowed himself to relax a little. “He asked me to send word to Thorin’s cousin in the Iron Hills, to let him know of the imminent attack.”

“Good, good. I’m glad.”

“And did Kili get home safely? Did you speak to him?”

“He did, and I didn’t – I’m not sure I would be welcomed by Thorin’s nephew…”

Gandalf reached for his pipe.

“The lad was asking after you, I think he was worried for you.”

“I hope you told him that I’m alright.” Bilbo’s eyes shot up to meet Gandalf’s. The Wizard stared back.

“I simply told him that you were waiting for the chance to go home.”

“Well, that’s good then.” The hobbit shrugged out of his coat. “I’m tired Gandalf, do me a kindness and leave me to my bed.”

“I’ll do you a greater kindness,” the tall grey wizard smiled, and he stood up, revealing a muslin wrapped package sitting on the upturned box. “Bard’s daughter Tilda managed to smuggle out some bread and cheese for you. She noticed that you had missed dinner and was concerned.”

A sunny smile broke out on the hobbit’s face.

“She’s a thoughtful child.”

“And she likes you.” Gandalf handed the food over. “As do your dwarf friends, never doubt it.”

He moved to leave the tent, pausing only momentarily when Bilbo’s voice sounded softly behind him.

“Thank you.”

xXx

Legolas walked softly, until he was out of sight and earshot of his father’s tent, away from the King’s personal guard, then he turned to the flame-haired elf that followed close behind him.

“Tauriel, you realise that you were being far too familiar with that dwarf.” He almost spat the last word as he stared coldly at her. “Had it been any elf but me finding you there, standing so close to my father’s enemy, your position in the guard would have been diminished.”

“How so my lord? I wished only to satisfy myself that his wound was well healed.”

“And that is all?”

“It is, but if it were not my lord Legolas? Your question could be deemed impertinent.”

Legolas’ bright eyes blazed in the torchlight.

“You forget who you are speaking to Captain!”

Tauriel hung her head.

“My apologies Lord, I fear I am tired.”

The king’s son reached a slender hand forward and brushed aside the curtain of her burnished hair.

“I would not see you demoted – or worse – because of your friendship with the princeling.”

“Yes Lord, thank you.” The she-elf was uncertain what else she was expected to say.

“And I would rather you spoke to me in friendship as you did with the dwarf, not with this stilted, formal speech.”

Tauriel blushed and lowered her eyes once more.

“Of course lord… Legolas.”

The elf prince smiled and took her arm, leading her further away from the camp.

“Ride with me Tauriel,” He said quietly. “I have a feeling that the Orcs from Dol Guldur are not the only threat.”

“Why so?”

“The Orcs that attacked Lake-Town bore a mark that I haven’t seen for many years – the mark of Gundabad Orcs.”

They had reached the roped off area where several horses were tethered. Tacking up the nearest animal Legolas pulled himself up into the saddle, holding the horse still with one hand while offering the other to Tauriel.

With a nod she accepted his hand, and allowed him to help boost her up behind hi9m. No sooner had she settled than he clapped his heels to the horse’s sides and it leapt away, carrying them north to Gundabad and an Orcs nest.

xXx

The company of Thorin Oakenshield listened carefully as Kili recounted his visit to Dale, although he didn’t feel it necessary to mention his discussion with Tauriel – even his brother had looked askance at his willingness to associate with the elf.

“Did you see Bilbo?” Ori glance around furtively as he mentioned the hobbit’s name, dreading that Thorin himself might be listening.

“No, but Gandalf assures me he is well.”

“He’s still there then?”

“Waiting for a chance to return to the Shire.” Kili smiled a little sadly. He missed the fussy little creature that had so gamely played along with their tricks.

Balin looked around at his companions.

“Then may the Valar keep him safe, for there will be nowhere in Dale or the surrounding lands for him to hide.”

xXx

In the treasure chamber Thorin Oakenshield was sitting, staring wildly at the piles of gold and jewels around him and listening, listening to the phantom voice that had spoken to him, turning the words over and over in his mind…..

**_You are not your grandfather, you are stronger than that…_ **

**_The storm is gathering…_ **

**_You will lose everything…_ **

…and he trembled, anger and fear warring within him – no-one would take his home away a second time.

xXx

Azog surveyed his army, a grotesque smile on his face, his eyes alight with malice.

“Tomorrow we will make an end of the Dwarves of Erebor, and any other who would stand in our way!”

A roar of assent rose from the Orc masses.

“They have forgotten what lies beneath these hills,” the pale Orc continued. “At dawn they will wish that they hadn’t!”

His shout of triumph echoed back at him in the continuing roars of his army. Tomorrow he will fulfil his destiny – tomorrow he will wipe out the line of Durin forever!


	4. They Are Legion

The first fingers of dawn were lighting the sky when Legolas and Tauriel climbed the rocky outcrop overlooking the fortress of Gundabad.

Crouching among the rugged stones the she-elf peered down at the ominous looking ruin.

“What is this place?”

“Gundabad – gateway to the ancient city of Angmar.”

Tauriel picked up on something in the way her companion spoke, something that cracked with barely disguised pain, and she sent him a questioning look.

“My mother died here.” Legolas said quietly, his eyes looking at the fortress but seeing the past instead. “There is no grave, no memory…”

“I am sorry.” The red head bowed in deference.

Giving himself a mental shake the elf prince drew his mind back to the present as the sound of beating wings broke the eerie silence, and a flying black mass hurtled towards an opening in the stone tower.

“Bats!” Tauriel exclaimed softly. “They’re swarming!”

“They’re bred for war.” Legolas explained.

The she-elf glanced at him, and then looked back to where their horse stood grazing at the foot of the crag.

“We should go back and warn your father.” And unspoken, her heart added _‘and the dwarves of Erebor.’_

“I fear we may be too late.” Legolas’ words drew her attention back to the fortress just in time to see Bolg at the head of an army of orcs and various crossbred Goblin-spawn, marching out of the ruins. The sight sent icy chills rushing to her heart.

xXx

Outside the mountain city of Erebor a golden host – armed and deadly – moved quietly into position. Striding through the halls Thorin called to his company to follow him.

“What now?” Kili asked no-one in particular, rising to his feet and falling in behind his uncle.

His brother shrugged and picked up his sword, while Balin Dori and Dwalin exchanged puzzled glances. Together the company gathered on the stone walkway and looked out over the assembled army.

Thranduil and Bard looked up at them.

“This is your last chance to make good your promises, King under the Mountain.” Thorin’s title was said with sneering disgust as the King of the Woodland Realm stared haughtily at him from his seat atop his battle-moose.

“Or what?” said King called back. “We both know you cannot breach our defences, and so we will simply wait for you to leave – you cannot be away from your ‘realm’ for too long.” He looked down at the elf, leaning on the parapet and looking every inch the regal dwarf he believed himself to be.

“Surely you cannot want war?” Bard sounded astounded. “Has there not been enough death and destruction to satisfy you?”

The dwarf company looked to their leader, but he had his head tilted to one side, listening.

“What’s that?” Dwalin growled, catching the noise being carried on the breeze.

The sound, steadily increasing, resolved itself from a jangle of noise to the distinct and clear sound of marching feet accompanied by the rumble of dwarven siege machines.

Thorin’s face broke into a broad smile. Cresting a hill to the east of the mountain came a large, armoured pig with an equally large red-headed dwarf riding astride it and carrying a battle axe.

A great cheer went up from the thirteen inhabitants of the mountain as the massed army from the Iron Hills marched into view.

As one the elves turned to face this new threat, and Thranduil and Bard rode through the ranks to stand once more at the head of the army.

From where he stood beside the wizard Bilbo looked up at the ferocious looking dwarf.

“Who’s he?”

“Ah,” Gandalf glanced down at the hobbit. “That is Dain Ironfoot, lord of the Iron Hill and Thorin’s cousin.”

“And is he like Thorin?”

“Well of the two,” the wizard confessed. “I’ve always found Thorin to be the more amenable.”

“Oh.” Bilbo digested that information and watched to see what would happen next.

The aforementioned lord of the Iron Hills stopped his forces and moved forward until he was within yelling distance of where the elves stood.

“Good morning!” his voice boomed cheerfully across the valley. “I wonder if you lot would consider just sodding off?”

Nothing was more guaranteed to upset Thranduil, and with a mere flick of his hand he signalled to his archers who then loosed a cloud of arrows up at the newcomers.

In return the dwarves fired a number of large, multi-bladed spinning missiles, and watched as they destroyed the arrows and went on to decimate the elven ranks.

“How d’you like that, the old twirlywhirlies?” Dain grinned hugely enjoying the shock on the faces of both the king and the newly appointed Master of Dale. Behind him his army rumbled forward, the heavily armed foot soldiers spread out across the hill behind their leader with the war chariots pulled by rams flanking them.

Dain shouted another order, and from behind the foot soldiers came dwarves mounted on rams, moving as if in a well-rehearsed ballet, passing smoothly between the ranks and charging down towards the waiting army.

From the ramparts of his mountain kingdom Thorin looked down and laughed loudly – although it struck several members of the company that there was an almost maniacal edge to his merriment.

“Our kin stand by us!” he declared happily. “Now we can make safe the treasure.” And slapping his hand against the stonework he spun on his heel and ran down the carved steps.

“But shouldn’t we join them?” Dwalin asked as he watched Thorin stride down the hall.

“Are we to just stay here?” Fili asked at the same time.

Without pausing Thorin replied “We must move the treasure to safety. There are chambers deep within this mountain that were inaccessible to the dragon, we will take it there, keep it safe…” he continued much in this vein as he strode along the passageways, oblivious to the fact the twelve remaining dwarves had not followed him, but were still staring after him in shock.

So intent was he on returning to the treasure hoard that he didn’t hear the menacing sound that rumbled ever louder over the sounds of battle. His companions however turned and looked down to see men, elves and dwarves stop and look towards the rocky range skirting the valley.

Following their example the company also looked across, just in time to see the ground explode out as a trio of were worms ate their way through rock and earth, throwing their gaping, maw-like mouths towards the sky before withdrawing, making way for the orc army to storm through.

On the battlefield Dain Ironfoot shook his head.

“Oh c’mon!” he cried, cursing loudly in his native tongue before yelling “The hordes of Hell are upon us!”

Dwalin looked on in horror as their kin turned to face the new threat, then bellowed back into the mountain towards the retreating figure of their leader.

“Azog!”

xXx

Bilbo turned his fear filled gaze up to Gandalf, noting absently the matching emotion in the wizard’s old eyes.

“What now?” he asked, his breath almost knocked from him as he was grabbed and unceremoniously dragged away from the sudden upheaval of dwarves, elves and men rounding on their mutual foe.

“Back to Dale.”

Gandalf was regretting bringing his friend out of the ruined city in the wake of the armies, but he hadn’t wanted to be left out of any possible negotiations no matter how late they came.

Bilbo on the other hand had had a more personal reason to be there. He desperately wanted to see his friends, to be beside them should it come to a fight, and his eyes were drawn back to look at the rock strewn gateway.

“I can’t see him.” He said almost to himself as he squinted up at the parapet. Bofur’s hat and Balin’s white hair were the most noticeable at this distance, although he thought he could see the shadows of the others.

The hobbit almost lost himself in contemplation and would have been swept away on a tide of charging dwarves had Gandalf not had the wit to grasp the smaller creature by the collar and sweep him around to stand behind him.

“This way!” the Wizard roared as, stumbling over feet and robes the pair made their way back from whence they came.

They almost managed to avoid the invading Orcs, but just yards from the city gates a handful of the foul creatures leapt out in front of them, and neither wizard nor hobbit had time to do aught but draw their weapons and fight for their lives.

xXx

Rank after rank of orcs streamed through the holes in the rock shrieking and howling and brandishing their weapons, while cresting the ridge came a dozen or more trolls, some carrying catapults on their backs, others with riders who controlled their direction and the swing of the great maces that they carried.

Dain’s army ran at them head on, and then dropped to form a double ranked wall of shields. As the enemy charged forward Thranduil’s elves ran up and over the dwarf wall, leaping into the orc army, stabbing and slashing, spraying the battlefield with black blood as in retaliation the orcs spilled theirs.

Over the bodies of the fallen the armies clashed and circled, then clashed again. The trolls added to the mayhem by catapulting rocks at the walls surrounding Dale or indiscriminately crushing anyone unlucky enough to be within reach of them.

Back within the city walls Bilbo and Gandalf were caught between the fleeing women and children and the orcs rushing through the breaches in the meagre defences and were separated, forced apart by circumstances beyond their control. The hobbit was terrified, but there was no time to give into his fear as he waved his sword, trying to make each slash and stab count while his body complained at the exertions he was forcing upon it.

Every now and then Bilbo found himself fighting beside elves or men – no dwarves had made their way up from the valley floor as yet. Barely having time to draw breath he turned this way and that, ducking and weaving, hardly able to believe his good fortune in remaining unscathed.

From behind him Gandalf heard the roar of the men of Dale returning to protect their loved ones, Bard yelling directions, sending them scurrying hither and thither through the twisted maze of cobbled streets. The wizard moved with them, always keeping a lookout for his little friend, but in the back of his mind he acknowledged that looking for a hobbit in a city of men was akin to searching for a needle in a haystack – he simply clung to his belief in Bilbo’s ingenuity and swift cunning and threw himself back into the fray.

xXx

“Where’s Thorin?” Dain roared as he smashed his war hammer into the head of a goblin mercenary. The dwarf beside him grunted negatively, and the deadly dance went on…

… inside the mountain stronghold twelve dwarves sat morosely unable to watch the battle, just listening to the sounds of carnage outside, their voices as they spoke only to their nearest kin not even penetrating the dark shadows clinging to the walls and fallen walkways…

… Thorin stared blindly at the piles of gold filling the room. He twisted and turned, looking this way and that trying to take it all in, and every movement he made sounded loud in his ears as his feet slipped and sank further into the sea of metal. Above the sound of chinking, scraping gold and jewels he could hear a voice... **_‘Thorin, you are not your grandfather, you are stronger than that –if you do not act soon you will lose everything’_** …it spoke over and over until Thorin could stand it no longer, and with a wordless cry he fell, shaking, to his knees…

The sounds of the battle raging outside of Erebor grew louder, the cries of the injured and dying more horrific, and an atmosphere thick with desolation and despair settled over the company. They still huddled in family groups, but conversation had died away to nothing and they just sat sharpening their weapons and waiting, always waiting, yet not one of them knew what they were waiting for.

Heavy footsteps approached from the dark depths of Erebor, and Kili looked up to see his uncle striding towards them. He looked more like the Dwarf who had led them this far, who had inspired their quest, now that he was no longer wearing his grandfather’s twin raven crown.

The youngest Durin heir stood, his fists clenched and his body rigid with anger. He stalked forward to meet him.

“I will not hide behind a wall of stone while others fight our battles for us!” he shouted. “It’s not in my blood Thorin.” Tears glowed in his dark eyes.

Thorin moved up to look into his nephew’s eyes.

“No.” he agreed softly, “it is not. We are sons of Durin, and Durin’s folk do not flee from a fight.”

Gently pressing his forehead to Kili’s, Thorin moved on towards the other dwarves.

“I have no right to ask this of you,” he said, “But will you follow me one last time?”

As one the company stood and took up their weapons.

xXx

The dwarves from the Iron Hills withdrew, pulling back to the gates of Erebor to regroup.

Despite the fighting in Dale Gandalf found himself looking down at the army of dwarves, Bilbo at his side.

“They cannot last.” He said quietly.

The hobbit couldn’t find the words to express his distress at the situation.

From across the battleground an orc battle horn sounded, and almost like an echo an answering horn sounded from the ramparts of the mountain.

With a gasp Bilbo looked towards the dark and forbidding peak, his keen eyes quickly finding Bombur as he stood sounding the war-like dwarven response.

“Thorin.” He said, the name passing his lips in a sigh, and as he watched a huge golden bell crashed through the stone, reopening the gateway.

From the darkness within came the sound of dwarves charging forward, led by Thorin Oakenshield, his sword held high and his voice roaring “Du Bekar!” as he brought his company out onto the field of battle.

Bilbo stared at the dwarf king, magnificent in his determination, and he imagined that he could see those mesmerising blue eyes flashing fire as he ran at his foes.

“The dwarves are rallying!” Gandalf exclaimed, as with renewed vigour he swung his elven blade and took out several more orcs.

xXx

The army of the Iron Hills followed their lord, his cry of “To the King!” firing their blood and driving them forward once more.

The pent up fury of the company cutting swathes through the orc army, adding strength to their arms as they scythed through foul flesh and bone, and they spread across the battlefield.

Family groups seemed to gravitate towards each other, and the company as a whole seemed to be watching out for each other. Axes were thrown to take out threats to kin and friend alike, and Bofur, using his brother and cousin as stepping stones ran up and jumped onto a troll, scrambling up to bury a stolen axe in the orc rider’s face before sitting in the driving seat and taking control of the huge maces, smashing the orcs and goblins, giving them a taste of their own medicine.

Thorin and Dain found themselves fighting almost side by side and took a brief moment to hug in greeting before they each turned and despatched an enemy that ventured too close.

“I s’pose ye have a plan?” Dain shouted as they fought side by side.

“Aye, I do.” Thorin replied, his eyes going momentarily to the distant figures on the top of Ravenhill. “I intend to take out their leader!”

“Azog?” Dain was aghast. Y’can’t, you’re our king!”

Without answering, the dark haired dwarf turned and grabbed the reins of a war ram whose rider had been unseated and was probably now among the dead littering the field, and leapt up onto its back.

“It’s because I am king that I must.”

Dain was forced to step back as, alongside his king Balin drove a war cart pulled by six rams and carrying Fili, Kili and Dwalin, all heavily armed and armoured.

Sharing a look with his old friend and counsellor Thorin nodded sharply and kicked his ram forward, Balin whipping up his animals and fairly flying along behind him.

Dain watched them go.

“May Durin save you all.” He said softly.

xXx

Thorin rode straight at the ranks of orcs blocking his path, cutting his way through them, swinging his sword from side to side, slicing and beheading with impunity.

Close behind him came Balin’s chariot, the serrated blades on the wheels causing even more carnage, while Dwalin cranked the handle of magazine loaded automatic bow, firing sharpened wooden stakes into the enemy.

Hanging onto the sides of the vehicle Fili and Kili watched for anything slipping under their guard. It was Fili that spotted the troll first, and his cry of warning brought Balin’s head up. The gigantic creature was lumbering towards them as they sped along the frozen river, and the dwarves were certain it would prevent them following their king.

“It’s okay lads!” a familiar voice called over the noise of the rumbling wheels. “Leave this to me!” and Bofur rode his troll towards the newcomer, making his creature swing his maces, catching the other a glancing blow to the head and sending him crashing down in the path of the chariot.

The rams didn’t falter, carrying on as if the downed troll was merely a bump in the road, and the dwarves yelled as the chariot rose into the air then crashed down, skidding sideways before righting itself.

Behind them Bofur’s troll had lost its footing, falling beside its friend and throwing his dwarf rider clear. The ever cheerful dwarf picked himself up, helped himself to a discarded weapon or two and ran back into the fray.

Up ahead Thorin had managed to escape the notice of most of the other fighters, making it to the foot of Ravenhill unimpeded.

The riders on the chariot were not so lucky. Wargs charged towards them, tearing into the leading rams.

“Cut the traces” Balin yelled.

“What about you?” Dwalin yelled back as Kili and Fili acted without hesitation.

“I’ll be fine – now go.” The white haired dwarf pushed his younger brother out of the way and placed himself behind the bow, loading a new magazine. Dwalin clasped his forearm and they knocked their foreheads together.

“Durin with ye brother.” Balin said as the warrior leapt upon the remaining ram and rode after the princes.

xXx

“Gandalf look!” Bilbo called, pulling the wizards attention away from the fighting all around them. “It’s Thorin!”

“He’s going to confront Azog, to cut the head off the snake, and he’s taken his best warriors with him.”

Bilbo nodded, picking out Fili’s blond hair, knowing wherever one brother was the other would surely follow, just as Dwalin would follow his friend and king to the Halls of Mahal if that was what he asked of him.

A fierce clashing heralded the next wave of fighting and both hobbit and wizard raised their weapons in readiness, yet over the sound of steel meeting flesh and the cries of the injured and dying came the stumbling hoof beats of a horse pushed beyond its limits.

Gandalf turned, a skirl of surprise forcing its way past his lips.

“Legolas!”

The prince of Mirkwood and the red-haired she-elf leapt from the creatures back.

“Gandalf, we are outnumbered.”

“But look,” the wizard argued. “we are gaining the upper hand.” He indicated the heavy losses among the orcs and their allies.

“There are more.” The blond prince stepped closer. “We saw legions of them, coming from the north, from Gundabad. Bolg leads them.”

Bilbo stared up at the three taller beings.

“Um… where exactly is north?” he asked.

The wizard turned and looked off into the distance.

“Ravenhill.”

“But that’s…” The hobbit’s gaze returned to where he had last seen the heirs of Durin. “Thorin is up there, and Fili and Kili…”

“And Dwalin, don’t forget they have their best warrior with them.”

“What? Four dwarves against a vicious horde? Gandalf, they won’t stand a chance!” Bilbo’s voice was all but drowned out by a string of Sindarin commands as Thranduil mustered what was left of his personal troop.

“Ah Thranduil,” Gandalf said, relief evident in his voice. “You must send your army to Ravenhill, Azog has reinforcements coming from Gundabad.”

“I will do no such thing.” The king of Mirkwood replied coolly. “Enough elven blood has been spilled this day, I will send no more to their deaths.”

“Then you condemn every last one of us.” The wizard snapped, his expression hardening to anger as he looked around for help. “Someone must warn them.”

“I’ll go.” Bilbo said firmly.

“You’ll never get through, you will be seen.”

“No, no I won’t.”

“I forbid it Bilbo, you’ll get hurt.”

Bilbo raised his eyes to look up at his companion, a small sad smile flickering across his face.

“You cannot forbid me Gandalf, I am my own person and no one has the right to order my life.” He started to move away, pausing momentarily to add “I need to do this, I owe it to Thorin, to Fili and Kili, and to my friends.” before slipping swiftly away.

As soon as he was out of sight of Gandalf and the elves Bilbo slipped into the shadow of a ruined monument and hastily slipped on his ring. Now at least he stood a chance of getting through.

xXx

Ignoring the hobbit and the meddlesome wizard, Thranduil stood at the head of his company and motioned for them to follow him. To his absolute amazement he found his path blocked by none other than the captain of his guard, and she was aiming an arrow straight at his heart.

“Tauriel? What is the meaning of this?”

“You must help them my Lord. I cannot let you walk away – they will die up there!”

Thranduil shrugged.

“Then let them die, it is of no matter to me. Why should I concern myself over the lives of a handful of dwarves?” A sneer curled his lip, and he looked at her as if with new eyes. “Ah, I see. You have a fondness for the youngest prince.”

At Tauriel’s start of surprise the elven king waved a dismissive hand.

“Nothing happens within my encampment without my knowledge. I know he asked to see you, and I know you spoke with him – it seems that now you believe yourself to be in love with the dwarf scum!”

And before Tauriel realised what was happening Thranduil took a step forward, swinging his sword, knocking aside her arrow and smashing her bow.

“Now,” he said, his voice low and deadly. “Cease this childish behaviour and fall in with the company before I reconsider your fitness to serve in my army.”

Shaking her head Tauriel stepped back, out of reach of her king’s weapon.

“You have no love in your heart, no light in your soul, for if you did you would not do this, you would not turn your back.”

Thranduil opened his mouth to refute her words but before he could utter a sound his son stepped between them, his back turned to his father.

“I will come with you Tauriel.”

The red-head nodded, turning to lead the way with the prince close on her heels, leaving Thranduil staring, open mouthed and speechless.

xXx

On a snow covered plateau the four dwarves stood surrounded by fallen orcs, their eyes turned towards the lookout tower. All was eerily still and silent.

“They’re gone!” Fili crowed.

“We’ve beaten them!” Kili was equally delighted that the enemy was nowhere in sight.

Thorin and Dwalin shared a look.

“Unlikely.” The tattooed warrior said softly, and Thorin nodded in agreement.

“Fili, you and your brother go scout up to the lookout. Keep low, and if you see the enemy don’t engage – you will report back to me.” He watched with pride as his sister-sons smothered their grins and at once became the warriors he and Dwalin had trained them to be.

The young princes had barely taken a dozen steps when Dwalin’s cry of “Goblin mercenaries!” stopped them in their tracks. Their uncle waved them away, assuring them that he and Dwalin would handle them.

And he had not been mistaken. The hundred or so goblins were no match for battle hardened dwarves, their superior fighting skills more than making up for the disparity in numbers.

xXx

Bilbo fought his way to the foot of Ravenhill, his invisibility being both a blessing and a curse. He dodged and weaved around men elves and orcs, avoiding the first two and stabbing and tripping as many of the third as he could without being caught – after all, it wouldn’t do for his luck to run out before his mission was completed.

It was fortunate that Ravenhill was shaped as a defensive outpost by dwarves and not men Bilbo thought to himself as he scrambled up the steep stone steps. There were still orcs swarming around the lower reaches, but they were intent on joining the main battle, so he met with less and less resistance as he neared the dwarf king.

Thorin had just taken out the last goblin when a breathless yet familiar voice called his name. He spun round.

“Bilbo! What are you doing here?”

Gasping for breath the hobbit waved away the question.

“You have to leave. Azog has reinforcements, Bolg’s leading them from Gundabad.” His eyes swept his former friends face, praying to all the Valar in Arda that he could believe the clear, untainted look in those bright blue eyes. “Any time now the lookout will be overrun.”

As one Thorin and Dwalin looked towards the highpoint.

“Kili and Fili.” The warrior said.

“We’ll bring them back.”

“Thorin, we can see off Bolg…”

“No, we’ll withdraw, and live to fight another day.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when a shout from higher on the lookout drew his attention. Fili and Kili had stumbled upon a nest of orcs hiding in the tunnels, and were fighting fiercely, holding their own against them despite being surrounded and heavily outnumbered.

Thorin turned to follow his nephews but was brought up short by the appearance of the first of Bolg’s legion. Raising his sword in a defensive stance he yelled at Bilbo to take himself off to safety before throwing himself into the fray.

Up on the high lookout Fili and Kili fought side by side, and often back to back, determined not to let a single orc get past them. Help, however, came from an unexpected quarter as Legolas and Tauriel dropped from the sky, having hitched a lift with two of Azog’s bats.

“Tauriel!” Kili couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.

“Kili” the she-elf’s voice was soft despite the precise way she sliced and diced the oncoming enemy. Fili and Legolas glanced at each other, rolling their eyes briefly before turning their minds back to the fight.

Despite Thorin’s order Bilbo found himself standing beside a pile of rocks using orc heads for target practice, and he was making fair inroads into the oncoming army when one of them, making his way around to get behind the dwarves, punched him in the side of the head with the hilt of his sword, and the last thing Bilbo saw was the ground coming up fast to meet him.

The fighting was fierce, but Dwalin had managed to work his way up towards the lookout while Fili Kili Tauriel and Legolas had managed to work their way back down towards him. With a smile that more resembled the snarl of a Warg he threw himself into the fight, not realising he was leaving Thorin to face his family’s greatest enemy alone.

xXx

With a groan that forced its way through gritted teeth Thorin hit the ice on his back, sliding across the frozen river to crash into the rock face. Not allowing himself the luxury of catching his breath he staggered to his feet and limped back towards Azog, who stood looking at him with a sneer across his scarred, ugly face.

“It will be my pleasure to send you to the halls of your maker to meet your cowardly grandfather, and your spineless father.”

Thorin didn’t have to understand black speech to know that he and his family had just been insulted, but he wasn’t going to rise to the bait. Pushing aside the pain from the numerous cuts and slashes he had picked up in the fight, he raised his sword and ran at pale orc, a battle cry escaping his cut and bleeding lips as he charged at his enemy.

xXx

Bilbo woke slowly, aching and disorientated. Sounds of fighting came from above him, and from some distance below him, but as he pulled himself to his feet the sight that met his eyes chilled his heart and stopped his breath in his throat. Thorin was fighting to stay on his feet as he traded blows with Azog, and it was obvious that the king was tiring.

The hobbit unsheathed Sting and climbed down the rocks. He made it onto the ice just as Azog kicked Thorin’s legs out from under him, and the dwarf king went down, Orcrist sliding just out of reach of his outstretched hand.

The pale orc laughed, and stepped on Thorin’s arms, anchoring him in place while he gloried in having his enemy at his mercy. He leaned down and raised his sword, pausing as a voice rang out clear across the frozen river.

“No! Get away from him!”

Azog looked up, startled. Thorin tilted his head back to stare at the hobbit running towards them.

“Bilbo, stay away…” his voice cracked, lacking strength.

“I said get away from him!” Bilbo yelled.

With a look that said he thought little of the creature, Azog spat a word at him in Westron.

“Halfling.”

With a cry of “I’m not half of anything, you overgrown lump of rotting meat!” Bilbo flung himself forward, leaping over the fallen dwarf and hitting the orc square in the chest and making him stagger back, while hacking blindly at him, trying to slice any part of Azog that he could reach.

Howling with rage Azog grasped the back of Bilbo’s coat and flung him away, watching as the small body flew through the air and crashed into the rocks, before falling from sight.

Thorin, released from captivity when the orc was pushed off balance, reached out and grasped Orcrist and lunged upwards, thrusting the blade through Azog’s chest, taking grim delight in the action until the large body collapsed down on top of him, knocking him back and smacking his head hard on the ice, rendering him unconscious.


	5. Aftermath

It was a battered but victorious quintet of fighters that slowly made its way down to the plateau, Kili with a broken arm supporting and supported by Tauriel who was limping heavily beside him, her leg gashed in an unlucky fall against some rocks. The other three bloodied and bruised, but the worst of their combined injuries was the spectacular broken nose the elf prince was currently sporting.

From their vantage point they could see that the combined forces of dwarves, elves and men had gained the upper hand and the orcs were now fighting desperately to get away.

“Mahal, no!” Fili’s harsh whisper drew his companion’s attention, and they followed his line of sight, their eyes drawn to the two tangled bodies lying in a pool of their combined blood.

Fili and Dwalin raced ahead with Legolas close on their heels, leaving Tauriel and Kili to limp after them as fast as they could.

Dropping to his knees Fili reached out to his uncle, brushing strands of matted hair from his pale face while Dwalin and Legolas Pulled Azog’s carcass away from him being careful not to cause him any further injury.

“He’s still breathing.” The relief in Fili’s voice was palpable, causing Kili to stumble as he sank down at Thorin’s side.

Tauriel eased herself down on the edge of the pool of blood that seemed to emanate from under his body. She looked to Dwalin, who was rapidly checking the king’s body for wounds.

“Few slashes and at least one spear thrust – nothing life threatening so long as we get him to the healers before infection sets in.” the warrior reported.

“Can we turn him over?”

“Tauriel?” Kili looked at the elf captain questioningly.

“We need to know what sort of injury he has that is bleeding underneath him.” Slender fingers indicated the spread of blood.

“If you will hold his head steady lass,” Dwalin instructed. “Fili, you and I will lift on my mark, Kili and you, master elf; I need you to take his weight. Ready?”

Barely waiting for agreement Dwalin gave the word and he and Fili started to lift Thorin onto his side, rolling him towards his nephew and the elf prince. Tauriel, having a firm grip on the injured dwarf’s head looked closely at his matted hair.

“He has a head wound.” She said in a matter of fact way. “I believe that is the source of most of the blood.”

Swift sure hands quickly checked for other injuries, but Dwalin was relieved to find nothing more than scratches and dents in Thorin’s chain mail and armour plate. He glanced swiftly around at his companions, and then nodded his head as he came to a decision.

“I’ll carry him down.” Matching words to actions he slipped his arms under his unconscious friend, his stern gaze quelling any argument from the Durin princes. “Fili, you go ahead, make sure there are no nasty surprises waiting for us…”

“I’ll help you with that.” Legolas stood from where he was cleaning Orcrist, having pulled the sword from the now dead pale orc. He held it out to Kili. “Take this; he earned the right to keep it.”

Kili simply nodded, unable to quite take in the unusual alliance they had formed.

Dwalin cleared his throat pointedly.

“Kili, you and your lass make your way down as safely as you can. The way forward should be clear but take no chances, and keep an eye behind you.”

No one mentioned the warrior’s comment – there would be time enough to deal with that particular hornet’s nest later.

xXx

The journey down was slow, but they met very little opposition, and those orcs and goblins foolish enough to get in their way were swiftly despatched by the vanguard of their little troop.

As they approached the edges of the newly forming encampment Fili raised his voice.

“Healers! We need a healer here, the King is injured.”

His call brought dwarven healers running from the tents they were setting up on the edge of the encampment closest to the entrance to Erebor. One of them, to the delight of at least three of the group, was Oin. His face bruised with tired smudges under his eyes but his countenance alight with relief as he took in the company members.

“Bring him this way.” He waved them towards his own healing tent. It was a little larger than the others, with a smaller sectioned off area at the back, and it was into this private area that they carried Thorin.

Fili and Kili were hustled out of the room, leaving Dwalin to give his report on their leader’s injuries. It was only then that Kili realised they were alone.

“Where are Tauriel and Legolas?”

“They slipped away. I don’t think they wanted to get caught up in our part of the camp.”

Kili frowned at his older brother, causing Fili to sigh and shake his head.

“Look around out there Kili. Already the three armies are separating, forming their own areas within the camp, close enough for mutual protection, far enough away to claim sovereignty over their patch of battlefield.” There was an underlying bitterness in his words, as the realisation that if their uncle had been awake and in his right mind he would be the one crowing the loudest about sovereign rights. He had not had the valuable insight of fighting side by side with the elves.

Bowing his head Kili slumped down onto a nearby makeshift cot.

“This is going to be difficult isn’t it?”

“You and Tauriel? Brother, you never did choose the easy path to anything.” Fili laid a hand on his brother’s head. “I will stand by you, but I can’t say that our uncle will be best pleased.”

Kili was saved from answering by an unknown dwarf hurrying through the entrance to the tent.

“Your Highnesses.” The stranger bowed low. “My lord Dain sent me to see if I can help his Majesty.”

Fili glanced over his shoulder at the small sectioned off area.

“I think for the moment Oin has it under control.” He hoped he was right, taking the near silence coming from the room as indication that no help was needed. “But my brother here has a broken arm; I would appreciate if you could look at it for him.”

“No but…” Kili started to protest.

“If you want to use your bow or wield a sword again you will get that properly set and the sooner the better.”

The healer nodded his agreement, reaching out and taking the young dwarf’s arm with surprising gentleness.

Kili tried not to wince as deft fingers manipulated the broken bone.

“We need to immobilise this.” the dwarf said finally, looking up at Fili. “In my sack you will find some lengths of wood, if your Highness would be good enough to pass me a couple, and some bandages?” Without looking to see if his request was answered, the healer carefully unlaced Kili’s vambrace. “This will hurt a little, but it is better to remove it before we set the arm.”

Pale and in pain, Kili nodded. He could see the break clearly just above the leather, but nothing prepared him for the agony that shot through him as the support was removed.

Moving quickly, the healer gripped and twisted the limb, and both princes heard the bone slide back into alignment. Before either could comment the arm was supported, splinted, and a sturdy bandage was being wrapped around it.

“Hold this here.”

Fili moved to obey without question, leaving the other dwarf to root about in his sack. With a smile he withdrew a length of material.

“This should serve well enough as a sling.” He said, tearing and folding it to the correct size, then slipping it around Kili’s arm and tying it off at the back of his neck. “Try not to knock it, don’t attempt to use it, and maybe let your own healer have a look at it when he has more time.”

“Vardran!”

The call from outside had the healer looking towards the doorway.

“That’s me I’m afraid.” He said with a sigh. “More wounded incoming no doubt. If you will excuse me…?”

“Thank you.” Kili’s voice was weak and pained, but sincere nonetheless.

“We will make sure Lord Dain knows of your service to us.” Fili added as the healer bowed out of the tent.

xXx

Bofur and Bombur weaved their way through the numerous makeshift tents and campfires, dragging their complaining cousin between them.

“I don’t want to see Oin!” Bifur growled loudly.

“Well you’re going to and that’s final.” Bofur was holding tight to his patience and trying to be the voice of reason – not easy when you are the family joker. “You’ve had that axe in your head for years, now you have a hole in your head and an axe head in your pocket! I want Oin to have a look at you to make sure you’re okay.”

Bombur gestured ahead of them to where he could see Dwalin and Balin talking beside a tent with the healers mark hastily painted on the outside.

“I’m not going.” Bifur dug his heels in.

“You are.” Bofur tugged harder.

“I’m…”

Bifur didn’t get a chance to finish his words as Bombur stepped behind him and used his not inconsiderable weight and stomach to push the recalcitrant dwarf. He shot forwards and landed on his knees in front of the sons of Fundin.

“No need to kneel, lad.” Balin said with smile. Each member of the company that returned lightened his heart, and these three were no exception, until…

“Tell these buggers I don’t need a healer!”

Balin and Dwalin stared. Fili rushed out to see what the commotion was, and he too looked startled.

“Bifur?”

“What?” wild eyed Bifur stared at his friends.

“You are…”

“…speaking in Westron.” Dwalin finished the prince’s sentence.

“What of it?” Came the growled response.

“Now you see why you need to see a healer?” Bofur hoisted his cousin up onto his feet and dragged him the last few steps into the tent.

Balin turned to Bombur.

“What happened?”

“He head butted a troll and they got stuck together.” The company cook grinned. “When we finally separated them the axe was in the troll’s head, not Bifur’s.”

“Is he…?” Fili asked, looking towards the two retreating figures.

Bombur shrugged.

“Some of the lads have set up a camp just over there,” Balin nodded to a small fire with a couple of figures huddled beside it. “Let’s take a seat and get warm.”

Dori’s extravagant braids were drooping pitifully, while Ori was staring off into space and then occasionally writing in his journal. Every now and then a spark would fly up from the meagre fire and startle the brothers, but then they would settle back into immobility once more.

“How’s Thorin?” Ori looked up, his gaze questioning.

“Unconscious, but not too badly injured.” Dwalin answered as he dropped down by the fire. “Oin thinks he’s concussed, but until he wakes we cannot be sure.”

“And Oin’s given Kili one of his famous sleeping draughts.” Fili added. “Anything to stop him trying to use his arm. He says the break isn’t bad, and will heal as strong as ever providing he rests it.”

“Well that would be like telling Nori to stop thieving.” Dwalin declared, earning himself a filthy look from Dori and a chuckle from the rest of the assembled company.

“Hence the sleeping draught.” Balin smiled and looked around. “Well, we’re almost a full company again – have you seen Nori or Gloin?”

“Nori’s off looking for food.” Ori said, not looking up from his writing. “Gloin was helping the men set up shelters for their wounded and dying.”

As if conjured by the young scribe’s words, Gloin stomped into their small encampment.

“They are hopeless.” He sighed, settling between Fili and Balin. “Most of them are more at home on a boat than on land – no idea how to protect themselves from the elements.”

“No doubt you put them in the right way of things.” Nori materialised from the shadows, a large piece of meat slung over his shoulder.

“What have you stolen now?” Dwalin asked.

“Not stolen – shared with a couple of Dain’s soldiers.” The star haired dwarf replied, throwing what looked like a whole haunch of mutton at Bombur. “One of their rams – killed in battle, rather not let it go to waste.”

Bombur caught the meat and grinned.

“Someone build up the fire. I need a sharpened stake and two cross supports.” He pulled a clean knife out from inside his coat and started to skin the meat. “I’ll soon have dinner roasting for us.”

xXx

Thranduil stared down at the healer gently stitching the gash in Tauriel’s thigh.

“Why is _she_ here?” His voice dripped disdain, and his eyes were as cold as the white gems of Lasgalen.

“I brought her here.”

“And why does my son feel it necessary to bring an outcast into our camp? Will her dwarves not treat her?”

“Outcast!” Tauriel gasped, but she was ignored as Legolas stepped up toe to toe with his father.

“We did not ask. Their King was injured, so I thought it best to bring her here, rather than use Erebor’s limited supplies.” The prince barely raised his voice, but there was steel in his words. “Tauriel was but a babe when the Greenwood and Erebor broke the ties of allegiance, not yet an adult when the dragon came and the sickness descended on our realm, and yet she was loyal to you without question…”

“Until now.”

“Until you refused your aid. In time of war it becomes you not to withhold aid.” Legolas looked down to see the healer tying off the last stitch and applying a soothing ointment to Tauriel’s other numerous scrapes. “I believe it was a matter of honour, ours if not yours.”

Holding out his hand Legolas waited until Tauriel was on her feet, and then walked her from the outer tent to his own sleeping quarters.

“Rest here.” He said softly. “I will let you know if there is any word from the Erebor camp.”

“Thank you my Lord.” The she-elf said softly, causing the princes eyebrow to raise superciliously. Tauriel smiled. “Thank you… Legolas.”

“Better. Now rest.”

Pulling the curtain across the doorway Legolas turned back to his father.

“Let her rest now. If you still wish her to leave once she is healed then we shall both throw ourselves on the mercy of the King under the Mountain.”

Thranduil frowned, his eyes puzzled.

“You would leave with her?”

“I would prove our people honourable Father, not petty and vindictive. You were right, too much elven blood has watered this battlefield, but we must remember it was not only elven blood, and Azog’s horde did not only seek out the dwarves of Erebor.” He shrugged as he walked out of the tent. “You were not innocent in this Father – none of us were. You were here to force Thorin Oakenshield’s hand, you cannot hold him responsible if you became embroiled in his fight.”

xXx

Thorin lay on the makeshift cot, his head pounding and his mouth tasting like sawdust. He knew better than to open his eyes, his last attempt ended in his retching and vomiting into a bucket that Oin had hastily put beside his bed.

He flinched slightly as a cold damp cloth was laid across his forehead.

“Definitely concussion.” Oin’s voice was gruff yet quiet. “I would advise you to stay put and not even attempt to sit up let alone drag yourself out of bed.”

“The Company…”

“Are all safe and well. The worst injury is Kili’s broken arm, and Bifur has lost his axe.”

“Lost his…!” Thorin’s eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright, regretting it seconds later as he dry heaved over the side of the cot once more, his stomach devoid of contents to expel.

“Now what did I tell you about not sitting up?” Oin chastised as he helped his king lay back down.

“Bifur…”

“Left his axe in the head of a troll. I have stitched the open gash in his head, to prevent anything getting into it, although it’s doubtful that after so many years the flesh will actually knit together.” The healer huffed distractedly. “I suppose once we have cleaned things up here we can worry about the long term issues.”

“The others?”

“Scratches and bruises, nothing more.”

“And Master Baggins?” Thorin’s voice was scarcely a whisper as he asked after the hobbit. With dismay he saw the healer shake his head.

“No one has seen him.” Oin sat down and folded his hands in his lap. “Dwalin last saw him when he followed the young princes up to the lookout, he said you had told the wee lad to take himself to safety.”

“Aye.” Thorin frowned. There was something in the back of his mind that didn’t quite ring true, but he couldn’t grasp the memory, no matter how hard he tried.

“If it will help I’ll ask some of the lads to make enquiries?”

“Yes. Send those he considered his friends, Bofur, and maybe Ori?”

Oin looked down sadly at Thorin’s words. It was telling that he no longer seemed to consider himself a friend of the hobbit – at least his memory was unimpaired in that respect. With heavy heart he went out to where the Company sat, watching the meat roast on their makeshift spit.

“Any news yet of Master Baggins?” he asked. “The King is asking after him.”

Blank looks and head shakes greeted his words.

“Shall we go look for him?”

Trust Bofur to be the first to speak up.

“Thorin thinks you and Ori would be best, being his friends.”

Ori jumped up with alacrity, shoving his journal into his bag, eager to begin the search.

xXx

It was not long before word spread around the camp that Master Bilbo Baggins had been summoned to the King under the Mountain’s sickbed, and that said hobbit was nowhere to be found.

Many of Dain’s warriors believed it was because he had been named traitor and therefore had run for his life – a tale that both Bofur and Ori denied strenuously.

Rumours that he was being sheltered by the men formerly of Laketown were also quashed, when Bard himself sent his own runners to search amongst their shelters and campfires.

As a last resort Bofur approached the very edge of the elven encampment and requested an audience with King Thranduil. He wasn’t hopeful, but to his surprise he found himself being led towards an opulent looking tent.

Once inside Bofur noticed the King himself sitting to one side, glaring as if his domain had been invaded by some unusual form of pestilence, but he was greeted civilly enough by the king’s son.

Bofur bowed low.

“I’m sorry to trouble yer Highness.” He said, pulling off his hat and twisting it between his fingers. “I was wondering if you had seen or heard anything of Master Baggins since the battle ended.”

“He is missing?” Legolas frowned.

“Well, to be sure we’re not sure if he’s missing or just left us to return home, but King Thorin would know that he is at least safe and well.”

“Ha!” Thranduil scoffed. “You mean he wants to make him suffer for his actions.”

“Father!”

“No yer Majesty.” Bofur turned to face the haughty elf. “He has withdrawn his accusations, and rescinded the banishment order.”

“Where did you last see him?” Legolas pressed on despite his father’s sneering.

“Master Dwalin and King Thorin saw him on Ravenhill. He went to warn them of the army from the north.”

“Yes, I recall.”

“Dwalin says the King ordered him to find safety, but the sadly the King suffered a blow to the head and his memory of that part of the fight is gone.”

Legolas glanced down at the sincere expression on the Dwarf’s face.

“Come with me, Master Dwarf, we will see if he has been taken to one of our healing tents, and spread the word that he is looked for.”

xXx

Ori and Bofur returned to the small camp weighed down by their failure to find their friend.

Their meal was shared in silence; no one felt they could yet rejoice in their victory. Food was passed around, although many had no stomach for it, their missing friend conspicuous in his absence, and it was this sullen group of dwarves that looked up at the sound of heavy footsteps striding swiftly towards them.

Their eyes followed him – none of them speaking – none of them liking the expression on Gandalf’s face as the wizard stormed past them and into the tent.

Thorin looked up as a shadow fell across him from the doorway, and his already pale face blanched further.

“Thorin Oakenshield!” Gandalf’s voice was loud and terrible. “What have you done with your hobbit?”

 


	6. Blade and Body

In the cold light of dawn the aftermath of the battle was slowly being cleared. Vast numbers of orc, goblin and warg corpses had already been piled as far away from the encampments as possible, and the remains of trolls were being dragged off the battlefield and out of the remains of Dale before they started putrefying.

No one in the small Ereborean camp mentioned the previous night’s harsh words from the wizard, nor the uncharacteristic lack of shouting from their King. Oin had assured them that this was in no way an indication of his health, merely that he had believed himself deserving of the wizard’s wrath.  And no sooner had the camps started to stir than Thorin called the company together.

“Master Baggins must be found.” He ordered, but there was no fire in his voice. “I would see him safe if I could, or if…” Thorin swallowed past the lump in his throat. “…if he is among the dead I would have him buried with honour, as a hero of Erebor.”

“He can’t be dead!” Bofur blurted out. The others looked at him with sad eyes.

“I truly hope not, but why then has he not made his presence known to Gandalf, or Bard, or even Thranduil?”

“He was on Ravenhill,” Dwalin said “You told him to find safety.”

“So you say, but I cannot remember.”   

“Well unless he made himself totally invisible he isn’t up there any longer. All the bodies have been brought down, Dain saw to that himself.” Balin moved to stand by Thorin’s bedside. “He has about a third of his army still able bodied, and has offered a number of his soldiers to help with our search. I suggest we each pair up with an Iron Hills dwarf – two pairs of eyes are always better than one – and it means they will always have someone who knows Bilbo…”

“Aye, that would be sensible.”  Thorin ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tightening in the greasy tangled mess.

“That won’t bring back your memory.” Dwalin’s voice was strangely soft as he reached out to prevent his friend tearing his hair out by the roots. “Oin has said you just need rest, let your mind and wounds heal.”

“We’ll find him.” Fili assured his uncle. “You know Bilbo – he can hide in plain sight when he tries…”

“Again I ask why he has not gone to Gandalf at the very least. I fear…”

“Enough Thorin; let those of the company that are free to do so look for him. You need to rest and heal.” Oin pushed a cup into the king’s hand. “Drink that.”

Thorin glared mutinously at the healer, a glare that was studiously ignored until he had swallowed the vile tasting medicine. The last thing that Thorin saw was Kili’s grinning face.

“Rather you than me,” his younger nephew said. “Oin’s sleeping draught tastes like an orc’s arse.”

“How would you know?” Fili asked as the healer shooed the company back out into the main body of the tent.

“Well actually…”

xXx

“Mithrandir, you will wear a trench across my tent if you do not cease this endless pacing.” Thranduil looked, and sounded, thoroughly bored. “Why all this anguish over a mere halfling? Surely there are bigger things to concern you?”

“Mere halfling?” Gandalf spun round and glared at the elven king. “How dare…? You have no idea how important to that ‘mere halfling’ is to me and to many others here.”

Thranduil was unmoved by the wizard’s threatening looks.

“I was led to believe he was banished, don’t tell me the King Under the Mountain’s loyal followers have any trust or love left for the thief for I wouldn’t believe it, likewise I hope you are not referring to my son. Why would he hold dear the creature who released our prisoners?”

“Don’t judge everyone by your own standards of grudge-bearing…”  Gandalf started, but he was interrupted as a curtain to one side of the tent moved aside, and Tauriel limped out.

With a small bow to her king she looked across at the wizard.

“Mithrandir, may I offer my help in finding the Master Baggins?”

“You will not!”

Wide eyed the she-elf turned to Thranduil.

“Sire, you have declared me outcast and therefore can no longer dictate my actions.” She said with commendable calm, adding “I will take myself out of your camp now, and help the dwarves of Erebor find their missing companion.”

Thranduil gaped, while Gandalf merely raised an eyebrow, a look of pleasant surprise on his face as the injured elf bowed once more and left, her head held high.

xXx

Once away from the king’s tent Tauriel let her posture sag. She had just compounded her ‘crimes’ by throwing her outcast status in Thranduil’s face, but she knew she would never be the type to stand idly by and watch when a friend was in need.

She pressed on, her footsteps carrying her past the men sheltering in their tents and into dwarven territory. Tauriel kept her head held high as she moved around Dain’s warriors, ignoring their stares and snarls and crude comments until she reached the tent where she had left the two princes the previous afternoon. As she reached out her hand to move the tent flap aside it moved and Gloin stepped out, glaring as he did so.

“What do you want?” He hadn’t forgotten their treatment at the hands of the woodland elves, and it showed in the way he planted his feet solidly, swinging his battle-axe up and holding it across his body, ready to strike.

A hand came down on his shoulder before the elf could respond, and Dwalin pushed his way out of the tent.

“Enough Gloin, the lass has proved her worth in battle.”

“What?” the Red haired dwarf spluttered, turning his glare on the tattooed warrior.

“Fought alongside me and the princes.” Dwalin moved his gaze to Tauriel’s face. “Can I help ye lass?”

“I offer my services to help find Master Baggins.”

“Tauriel!” the shout came from inside the tent and seconds later the dark haired prince, stumbling over his own feet in his haste, burst out into the cold fresh air. “What’s wrong?”

Tauriel quirked an eyebrow. “Nothing is wrong Highness,” she bowed her head gracefully. “I merely wish to help find your missing friend.”

“Highness?” the young dwarf spluttered. “It was ‘Kili’ last time we spoke.”

“You are one of the heirs of Erebor.” Gloin reminded him with a growl. “It is your right!”

Tauriel smiled a little, and lowered her eyes in acquiescence. Kili narrowed his eyes slightly, taking in the impish light in her eyes.

“Bah!” he exclaimed. “You can help me. I’ve been banned from doing anything that might damage my arm further.”

The elf bowed once again as Kili announced that they would start by walking the boundaries of the battlefield, in case Bilbo had sought safety away from the fighting, and together they headed for the furthest point of battle to the east of the mountain. In fairly short order Dwalin had paired up members of the company with Dain’s warriors, giving them specific areas to search, leaving just Thorin, Balin and Oin at the camp.

Balin set himself up in the outer area of the tent so he and Dain could discuss the business of making Erebor secure and clearing living quarters for the company and the Iron Hills warriors. In a corner, near his bedroll, Oin busied himself mixing ointments to help the sick and injured, ointments that he would distribute among the other healing tents while giving aid where he could.

In his section of the tent Thorin slept on, but his dreams were not good dreams, and he soon found himself caught in the grip of a nightmare…

xXx

The stench of dead troll was almost overwhelming, and Tauriel used her knife to tear a couple of large strips from the bottom of her tunic, tying the first around Kili’s nose and mouth before putting on her own. It masked some of the smell, made it a little less unbearable, and Kili’s eyes were alight with mirth as he glanced up at his elf.

“We look like bandits from Ered Nimrais.”

“You would prefer the smell of troll?”

“I’d rather not look as if I’m up to no good, especially given the company I’m keeping…”

Despite the teasing talk both were meticulous in their search, even going to the extreme of moving up close to the dead creatures and trying to see if Bilbo had found himself trapped or crushed by the huge falling bodies. If it came as something of a relief not to find him in such a situation, neither mentioned that if he was under the belly of the beast then there was no way for them to tell.

xXx

Fili led the way past around the dwarven encampment, striding out towards the foot of Ravenhill. At his side and matching him stride for stride was a warrior who had introduced herself as Keldran, daughter of Vardran the healer.

“My lord Dain has already removed the dead from the watchtower.” Keldran said, her eyes not leaving the path ahead of them.

“I know,” Fili skirted around a rocky outcrop before climbing the rough ground that was more suited to cloven hoofed rams than booted feet. “Bilbo is small, and could easily be missed if he tried to escape while avoiding the pathways.”

“Or if he fell…”

“Right.” Fili didn’t want to think about the damage a fall on this rocky terrain might do to his friend.

“Maybe I should bring my father, or Emith my husband? They are both noted healers…”

Fili stopped and glanced back, taking in the activity around the healing tents. He shook his head.

“I fear they have more than enough on their hands without dragging one away on what I hope to be a fool’s errand.”

“As you wish, Highness.”

The Prince nodded, and started climbing once more, his eyes scanning the terrain for a sight of the ragged blue coat Bilbo had been wearing.

xXx

Bofur, Ori and their respective search partners were tasked with searching within the camps. Having already been to the elves, Bofur agreed that it would be easier for him to go there again – he acknowledged he was thicker skinned that the young scribe – leaving Ori to approach the men of Dale.

Much to the distaste of Bofur’s fellow dwarf, and to Bofur’s silent amusement, they were met by Prince Legolas who, concerned that Bilbo was still missing, insisted on joining them in their search.  To his credit, he ensured that their search wasn’t unduly hindered by acts of wilful ignorance or deliberate misunderstanding.  Each group of elves being asked the same question – had they seen a hobbit, a short fellow with honey coloured hair, wearing a blue coat and bare feet? – and each group answered the same, he had not been seen since Azog’s army burst out of the ground.

The healers were more helpful and they promised to keep an eye open for Master Baggins, should he be brought in with those needing treatment. There were still those coming in to the healing tents and with any luck he would be among the walking wounded.

Ori had had little luck with the men of Dale. He had Bard’s permission to look around the encampment and make enquiries where they chose, but the men were not inclined to be helpful, most choosing to brush off the dwarf’s concerns and questions with a shrug and a suggestion that if Master Baggins was alive he had probably scarpered back to where he came from, considering the Dwarf King’s treatment of him.

The two dwarves spent hours in the camp, Ori becoming more disheartened with every negative response. His companion could say or do nothing to cheer him, because if he were honest he believed the men of Dale had a point – if the hobbit had any sense he would have headed home.

“We should return to our camp.” Girid suggested as they moved away from the last group of people sitting around a fire.

Ori nodded forlornly. “I can’t believe Bilbo would run – not after…”

Girid frowned.

“After what, Master Ori?”

“Nothing. Come on, let’s get back.”

They hadn’t taken but two steps when a voice called out.

“Master dwarf! Master dwarf, wait!”

They turned back and saw, hurrying towards them, a woman dressed in oilcloth and wearing a strange looking studded hat. In one hand she carried a wicked looking halberd. They waited until she reached them.

“Master dwarf,” she said again, gasping for breath and holding her chest. “You are looking for your friend? The little hobbit?”

“Have you seen him?” Ori’s eyes lit with hope, but her next words took it from him.

“The last I saw him he was fighting in Dale with that wizard, though I did hear tell that he was sent to your king up on the lookout.”

“So you have nothing really to tell us Mistress…?” Girid tried and failed to hold back a sneer, and found himself with the axe end of the halberd very close to his face.

“That’s Mistress Blanca, Hilda Blanca.” The woman hissed angrily. “And I’ve told you – he was here, then he was sent away to Ravenhill. Look for him up there.” And as suddenly as it had come the anger seeped out of her and she sighed, her eyes flicking down and away before looking back at Ori. “Look, I’m trying to tell you,  if he made it to Ravenhill it’s unlikely he would have been able to get back – the fighting was fierce, even us women were fighting! – and if he didn’t make it…” she shrugged. “I assume you’ve sought him amongst the dead?”

“Those that have already been l..laid out, yes.” Ori stammered, thanking her for her help and all but dragging the other dwarf away.

xXx

_Hobbits couldn’t fly. Bilbo knew this as a fact – being a hobbit himself he was well aware of their limitations – flying was strictly the purview of birds… and dragons, he reminded himself… so why did he feel that he had flown?_

_Maybe that’s why he hurt – and he did hurt, badly. Pain ricocheted through his body as he tried to move, and then to his horror he was falling… not far, just a foot, maybe two before he came to rest caught in a sharp vice, and it was enough to set his body screaming even though hardly a sound passed his lips._

_Bilbo was cold, and uncomfortable, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t open his eyes and take stock of his situation. Frustration made him want to cry or shout, he wanted to know he wasn’t the last creature alive in Middle Earth, but when he tried the only sound that issued forth was a muted whine._

_The dull thudding in his head increased in intensity, his aching body adding to the cacophony of internal noise that was overwhelming his senses, and as he let the world slip away from him his last thought was of dark hair and blue eyes. Thorin._

xXx

Following the clean-up a large mound of weapons had been gathered, the large pile of metal situated in the middle of the main dwarf encampment, and as the afternoon wore on Dain walked back towards his own tent, pausing only to run a practiced eye over bloodied collection.

“You two!” he called over to a couple of his warriors who were lounging just inside a tent nursing minor injuries. “I’ll send a couple of carts over to you, get that hardware sorted – dwarven in one cart, elf-make in the other. Let’s give the pointy-eared devils their weapons back before they accuse us of stealing them.”

“What about the rest?” one of the dwarves replied, wandering over and kicking what was obviously a goblin spear.

“We’ll worry about that shite later.” And Dain strode away, yelling orders left and right, trusting his warriors to do his bidding.

xXx

**_The gold was swallowing him, devouring him heart and soul, burning him until he wanted to scream “I am not my Grandfather!” – and it was then that he heard the voice again… “you are stronger than that”.  On the edge of his consciousness he thought he should recognise the voice, should know who it was._ **

**_Phantom hands grasped at the front of his coat, holding him close, breathing life into him as soft lips ghosted across his, saving him…_ **

Thorin sat up with a gasp, his chest heaving as he struggled to get enough air into his lungs. He started as a hand fell softly onto his shoulder.

“Easy lad.” Balin said, his voice quiet, soothing. “You were having a nightmare.”

“It seems so.” Thorin agreed, pushing himself carefully up into a more comfortable sitting position. He drew in a deep breath. “What news?”

“Dain has secured the mountain, and tomorrow he and I will take the company along with some of his men in to start organising living quarters.” He glanced back towards the open tent flaps before shaking his head. “Winter will be upon us before we know it, the Iron Hills dwarves will need somewhere to stay…”

“What of the men? Have they sufficient shelter?”

“Dain thinks not.” The older dwarf stroked his beard thoughtfully. “He’s seen the damage the orcs and trolls have wrought, and much of the shelter they found to start with is now destroyed.”

“I trust Bard survived?”

“He did, and will I believe be glad of any assistance we can offer to keep his people alive. Dain has suggested that we might find room for their wounded, and the women and children?”

Thorin nodded his consent to the suggestion and fell silent. Balin waited, knowing what his king wanted to ask and yet not rushing to volunteer information

Oin interrupted, bringing with him a bowl of warm water and a handful of clean bandages.

“I’m fine.” Thorin growled, glaring half-heartedly at the healer.

“Of course you are,” Oin replied reasonably. “That’s because we’ve kept your wounds clean and your body rested.” He leaned forward and looking into the younger dwarf’s eyes. “How’s your head? Any pain, double vision? What about nausea, are you still feeling sick?”

 “I said I’m fine.”

“So you did laddie, now if you’ll let me change your bandages and get some food down you, I’ll think about letting you get out of that bed for a bit.”

“The sooner the better, I need…”

“And that doesn’t mean I’ll allow you to go traipsing off looking for Master Baggins!” Oin tucked his ear trumpet into his pocket, signalling an end to their conversation.

Balin hid a chuckle and left the healer to his work.

xXx

“Oi! What’re ya doin’?” An Iron Hills dwarf stood with an armful of dwarven weaponry, glaring at Bifur. The warrior turned toymaker was standing beside the wagon filled with elvish swords, a small knife in his hand. “I’ve to take them back to the tree-shaggers!”

“This belongs to us! Where did it come from?”

Throwing his burden into the second wagon the dwarf walked over.

“If it was on the top of the wagon it would have been among the first collected.” He said with a shrug. “Came down from Ravenhill.” Peering at the blade he scratched his intricately braided beard. “Yours? That’s elven-make.”

Bifur ignored the last remark, glancing around and spotting a familiar face.

“Dwalin!” he yelled, catching the tattooed dwarf’s attention and holding up his find. “”It’s Bilbo’s sword.”

Dwalin strode across and almost snatched the blade from Bifur’s hand.

“Where?”

“Ravenhill.”

Dwalin turned to Finnir, the warrior that had accompanied him.

“Find me some rope and follow us to the lookout – if the blade was up there then he must be up there somewhere out of sight, and I don’t want to be shaggin’ about when we find him – we’ll go prepared.” He looked at Bifur’s search companion. “You know Balin son of Fundin?”

The dwarf nodded.

“Right, find him, tell him what we know, and make sure you tell only him – if he’s with the King wait until you can talk privately to him, I will not have my King killing himself trying to join the search. Bifur, you’re with me.”

Side by side they jogged away from the camp, following the path that it was likely that Bilbo had taken to carry the news of the second army up to them.

In Dwalin’s mind it was taking far too long to climb up to the lookout, but he said nothing, saving his breath for climbing. His eyes scanning for Fili and Keldran, he led Bifur up the ruined stairway that once served as the main path to the old and now ruined guardhouse.

By the time they found the Prince and Keldran, and had explained about the finding of Bilbo’s sword,  Finnir had joined them with a length of sturdy rope coiled around his waist and a blanket thrown over his shoulder.

“He’ll be freezing if he’s lain up here since the battle.” The warrior said in response to Bifur’s questioning look.

“Do we know where up here?” Fili asked, hope warring with despair at the amount of time that had passed with no sign of their hobbit.

Bifur shook his head.

“Just somewhere up here. The Iron Hills dwarves wouldn’t have realised the significance…”

Fili turned and looked away across the ice, his eyes drifting across the pool of now frozen black and red blood that marked where Thorin had finally beaten his nemesis.

“Dwalin,” Fili sounded thoughtful. “If you were Bilbo, and had acted as he did on the wall above the gate, would you run and hide?”

The large warrior looked around as if hoping to find the answer in the surrounding rocks and ruins.

“Think about it.” The young dwarf went on, his voice gaining confidence. “What he did, he did to try to prevent a war – and this is the same hobbit that climbed down from a blazing tree, killed and orc and then put himself between my uncle and Azog. He was here, I’m sure of it.”

“He was up there -” Dwalin pointed to the ledge where, in the heat of the battle, Thorin had sent his nephew up to scout ahead, where Bilbo had appeared as they finished off the last of the goblin mercenaries. “- I followed you and Kili, I heard your uncle tell Bilbo to get to safety, I thought he was right behind me but he must have been waylaid by Bolg’s reinforcements.”

The Iron Hills dwarves split up, searching once again the rocks and crevices where Bilbo had last been, looking closer to see if he had fallen or just hidden and managed to get himself stuck, while Fili found himself drawn to the bloody mess where Azog had fallen. Desperation stirred within the young prince, and he threw back his head and yelled

“Bilbo!”

Silence.

“Bilbo, you’re safe – you can come out now.” Dwalin added his own entreaty.

Nothing.

And then…

“Did you hear that?” Fili whispered, his head snapping round to look at the rocks on the far side of the frozen waterfall. “It came from over there.”

There was another faint groan, and Bifur and Dwalin were right beside him as he slipped and skidded his way across the ice.

“Look, there!” Bifur pointed to a patch of bloodstained rock.

Below it was a deep crevice, and as they looked down into it they saw to their horror Bilbo’s blue coat, and a leg twisted and covered with blood.

“Over here!” Dwalin called to their helpers. “Get that bloody rope here, quickly!”

“I’ll go over,” Fili said, removing his twin blades from his back and placing them carefully out of the way. “I’m probably the lightest.”

“Be careful.” Dwalin advised as he grabbed the rope from Finnir and tied it around Fili’s waist. “Try to assess his injuries before you move him…”

The blond dwarf gave his friend a look that spoke volumes before lowering himself over the edge and climbing carefully down the rock face.

Dwalin and Bifur took up the slack on the rope, ensuring that the prince wouldn’t fall, and the remaining dwarves watched as the rescue attempt was started.

xXx

Thorin ate his stew under the watchful eyes of his oldest friend and the company healer, feeling a little like a dwarfling in the nursery. He scowled at the bowl in front of him as if it had offended him – it was no substitute for scowling at Balin, but the white haired dwarf just smiled serenely at him and encouraged him to eat.

To make his humiliation complete, Dain chose that moment to wander in, a big grin on his face as he took in the scene.

“Confined to the schoolroom are ye?” he laughed, his grin widening at Thorin’s glare. “Oh, Balin, there’s one of my lads outside would like a word with you – said something about supplies?”

Balin frowned, but excused himself nonetheless to see what was needed, leaving Dain to sit in the chair he had vacated.

Outside the tent the warrior stood at ease, leaning on his spear, but he straightened up as soon as he saw the older dwarf.

“Master Balin, your brother sent me,” he said quietly, and went on to explain about the sword, and where it had been collected from.

“You say my brother has gone back up there?”

The dwarf nodded, adding “I believe one of the princes is already up there, and Master Bifur and Master Finnir have gone too.”

Balin nodded. “Alright laddie, thank you. You go and get yourself back to your tent, get some rest. I don’t doubt my brother will send word soon.”

As he watched the warrior walk away he stroked his beard thoughtfully. Indeed he was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t here Kili and Tauriel arrive until they were right in front of him.

“We walked the perimeter.” Kili said without preamble. “Nothing.”

“Has there been any news Master Balin?” Tauriel looked earnestly down at him.

“Well…” Balin exhaled long and loud. “There has… and there hasn’t.”

“Balin!”

“Now Kili, keep your voice down. There’s more hope now than there was earlier, but I’m not one to count my gems before they’re mined. I’ve not told your uncle yet, so let’s wait until the others return and I’ll tell you all then. Meanwhile, there’s plenty of stew, why don’t you both eat and then rest up in here awhile.”

Sulkily Kili dragged Tauriel to the campfire.

“It’ll be mutton stew – do you eat meat?”

“I do,” the she elf smiled. “Despite what others say, we do eat some flesh – just maybe not as much as dwarves.”

Digging around for a couple of clean bowls and spoons, Kili ladled a good portion for each of them, and they sat side by side eating, a peaceful calm settling over them.

One by one the others returned, and none of them with news. Kili and Tauriel made no mention of Balin’s secretive behaviour as they joined in the small talk around the fire. Even Gloin seemed to have forgotten his animosity towards the elf, showing her his prized portraits of his wife and son.

Kili smiled. The first hurdle – acceptance from the company – seemed to have been cleared, and he knew his brother would support him, all that remained was to convince Thorin.

And as if conjured up by his nephew’s thoughts alone Thorin limped out of the tent, his cousin behind him, Balin and Oin bringing up the rear.

“We are still three short.” He observed, his eyes looking at the faces around the fire, pausing when they fell on Tauriel, his shoulders stiffening slightly.

“Uncle, this is Tauriel.” Kili jumped in before Thorin could say anything. “She saved my life in Laketown, and again up on the lookout.”

“We saved each other several times over up there, there is no debt.” The elf demurred softly, standing to face the dwarf king.

“And she’s helped look for Bilbo.” Bofur added helpfully.

“And made sure his Highness here didn’t go hurtin’ himself.” Nori added pointing to Kili’s broken arm.

“Then I owe you my thanks at the very least.” Thorin said stiffly, as if the thought of being in debt to an elf was painful.

“Uncle…”

“No Kili.” Tauriel put a hand on his shoulder.

“But I must!” the prince replied.

Thorin’s eyes flicked between the two of them.

“Must what?”

“Uncle, Tauriel has been outcast for coming to our aid on Ravenhill.” Kili explained earnestly. “She has nowhere to stay…”

“And you are suggesting…?”

“Can she stay here? At least until she can find somewhere safe?”

“I had thought to travel on to what was once Beleriand, to see if anything remains of the Thousand Caves of Menegroth.”

“The caves sunk beneath the waves centuries ago.” Thorin waved a hand dismissively.

“So it is believed, though I would see for myself.” 

Tauriel’s reply drew Thorin’s narrowed eyes to hers.

“You would need food, weapons, and winter is coming – you would do well to beg your king’s forgiveness, put off your travels until the spring.”

“No!” Kili leapt to his feet, but Tauriel spoke again.

“I will not beg forgiveness from one who would leave allies to die.” She placed her empty bowl on the floor at her feet and bowed to Thorin. “I thank you for the meal, but now I must find shelter for the night.” She turned away.

“Uncle…”

“Wait.”

Tauriel turned once more and looked at the king.

“I… I owe you my nephew’s life, and I will not turn you away from the shelter of our tent.” Thorin sighed. “You may stay until other arrangements can be made.”

A collective sigh of relief fluttered around the camp fire, and the elf bowed low in thanks. With a nod Thorin turned away.

“Balin I…” He stopped and swayed slightly on his feet. A hand steadied him but he didn’t feel it – instead he felt the weight of Azog’s feet on his arms, the chill of ice beneath him.

If his companions spoke he did not hear them – he heard a voice, a much missed voice, and it was screaming…

**_“I said get away from him!”_ **

Suddenly his memories returned, rushing and tumbling over each other to play out the fateful and macabre scene from Ravenhill. As if his head was still tilted back Thorin could see Bilbo running towards him, leaping through the air and crashing into the pale orc.

And then with sickening clarity he saw the orc’s hand grasping the back of the tatty blue coat that the hobbit had acquired in Laketown, watched as it pulled the screaming thrashing creature from its chest and flung it away, to crash into the rocks.

Thorin came to his senses with Balin and Oin fussing beside him, but his eyes were drawn to the group approaching them from the other side of their camp.

Dwalin, Fili, Bifur and Keldran each held the corner of a blanket, carrying it with care.

The company rose to their feet, all eyes now on their comrades.

Thorin pushed his way to meet the four dwarves, looking down in horror at the broken body of their burglar.

 


	7. Of Death and Other States of Being

A strangled gasp from Ori jolted the company from their collective shock, and Oin snapped an order for the four stretcher carriers to bring their friend in. There was much bustling about as a second bed was moved into the small area at the back of the tent that served as a sickroom. Thorin looked down as the blanket was gently lowered - Bilbo had never seemed so small, but now he looked like a battered and broken rag doll.

The memories that had suddenly returned to Thorin spilled out of his mouth as he moved to lean against Fili.

“He saved me! He took on Azog and the beast just threw him away! He gave me time to act, to save myself and to save Erebor”

Beside them Oin was carefully cutting away Bilbo’s clothing while giving instructions to Dwalin and Bifur.

“Dain said he had some iron stoves for heating the tents – see if you can’t persuade him to part with one. Our burglar is near frozen to death on top of his injuries.”

“Tell him I requested it” Thorin added his words to Oin’s, knowing that the Iron Hills lord would not refuse them.

Needing no further encouragement the two dwarves left at a run.

Working quickly the healer removed the ragged remains of the blue coat and the child sized trousers and that had been lent to the hobbit in Laketown, leaving him in just his shirt and the mithril gifted to him by Thorin. Oin frowned as he pulled a blanket over Bilbo’s lower half.

“Those cuts to his legs will have to be seen to, but this is more worrying.” He pointed to the right side of Bilbo’s face, where it was cut and bruised and caked with blood that had spread across to glue his eyes shut. That same hand waved downwards to where his neck and shoulder met, and even with the lightweight armour covering both skin and cotton clothing Thorin could see the odd way the bones seemed to lie.

“I got him out of the crevice as carefully as I could.” Fili had remained behind after the others had vacated the makeshift sickroom. “He was trapped in the rocks, but had he not been we would not have found him alive.”

Oin acknowledged the young prince’s words while carefully lifting the edge of the mithril.

“I don’t know how I’m going to treat this Thorin, I need to get this off him but I don’t know what damage I’ll do in the process.”

“How bad is it?” Worry creased the uncrowned king’s forehead.

Oin shook his head.

“It’s bad. I can feel the collarbone is broken, but there may be other damage, internal injuries that could be worsened if we try to move him.”

Any answer Thorin might have given was interrupted by the return of Dwalin and Bifur, carrying between them a heavy iron stove. Bofur followed them in with kindling, and Tauriel slipped in last with a bowl of warm water in her hands.

“I thought you might need this to clean his wounds.”  The she-elf said quietly, placing the vessel onto a low table beside Bilbo’s bed.

“Aye lass, thank you.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

The healer looked up; remembering the help Tauriel had given Kili in Laketown. To say that he had been impressed would have been an understatement, and a modicum of hope grew within him. He flicked a glance at Thorin, and saw that their leader was waiting to hear his answer.

“Lass we need to find a way for us to take this off so I can treat those broken bones.”

The red haired elf knelt down beside the bed, her eyes taking in the tight mesh of the mithril covering the injured shoulder. Tentatively she lifted the shimmering metal between thumb and forefinger, her eyes keenly surveying the area around Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Mithril cannot be cut, nor are the links of this mail so loosely crimped that they can be pulled apart.” Thorin said his voice low. “This was meant to protect him, not prevent his receiving aid…”

Tauriel meanwhile had been easing the armour and Bilbo’s shirt gently up his body to reveal bruised flesh beneath. She looked up at the dark haired dwarf, indicating several areas of heavy, linear bruising.

“I believe it did,” she said softly. “These look like sword slashes, without the mail he would have been dead a dozen times over.”

A thoughtful frown dinted Tauriel’s brow.

“I think we can remove this, but it will need careful manoeuvring.” Green eyes turned to the old healer. “If I can slip my hands inside his clothes, I can hold the broken bones as steady as possible while you take the armour off the undamaged shoulder. Then you’ll need to lift it over his head, and then hopefully we can free him from it completely.”

Matching actions to words, the elf moved to kneel at the head of the bed and gently slid a hand inside Bilbo’s shirt under the damaged shoulder. Once certain that she had it supported her other hand slipped across the top of the shoulder, barely applying pressure, just enough to hold the broken bones still.

Oin moved quickly to slide the mithril up the left side of Bilbo’s chest, carefully moving and lifting the arm, gradually slipping it free. Without looking away he barked an order at his king.

“Lift his head – gently now – so I can get this over it.”

Kneeling next to Tauriel Thorin placed both hands carefully under Bilbo’s head, feeling the cold tackiness of the blood matting the wavy, honey coloured locks, and he stared down into the pale damaged face. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t hear Oin’s voice until the healer spoke a second time.

“Thorin lad, you need to concentrate! Move your left hand so I can lift the mithril around his head…that’s it…now take the weight again with your left and lift your right hand…”

Slowly the mail armour was moved, until at last the only obstacle was Tauriel’s hands holding the hobbit’s broken bones.

Thorin moved out of the way, barely taking his eyes off the figure in the bed. Oin glanced at the red haired elf who looked calmly back at him.

“I’ll take my hand from the top of his shoulder and out from under the mithril,” She said softly “and will slip it under the armour underneath his body and hold the bones together.”

Oin nodded, seeing where she was going with this. True to her word she moved first one hand, and then the other hand came out through the neck of the mail shirt allowing the healer to gently remove it completely. There was a collective sigh of relief as Tauriel laid Bilbo back onto the bed.

“He’s too still, too quiet.” The occupants looked up to see Gandalf standing in the doorway. “Let me see him.”

“Gandalf, can you help him?” Thorin’s expression was one of desperation, and the old Istari looked tiredly down at him.

“I cannot say,” He replied slowly, “he is but a small hobbit, not built for war.”

“And yet you allowed him to fight…”

“He would not leave you to fight alone – have you not realised his worth or his heart even now?”

There was no fire in Gandalf’s words, only sadness as he crouched beside the low bed and wiped gentle fingers across the pale cold brow.

“Bilbo my old friend,” he muttered as his hands gently moved across the small creature’s face and down his neck to his shattered collarbone. He added something in a language unknown to his companions as he rested the back of his hand against Bilbo’s unbloodied cheek. “I believe he will now feel no pain while you clean and dress his injuries.”

“The broken bones…”

“His shoulder and collar bone, yes, the only thing you can do Oin is bind them so that they do not move – that he is still alive, albeit barely, gives us hope that no hidden damage has been done.” Gandalf let his eyes follow Dwalin Bifur and Bofur as they left the tent, the stove now lit and warming the small canvass room, then turned his old eyes back to the heir of Erebor. “You will come with me Thorin Oakenshield, and leave these good people to do their best for our friend.”

With a sullen look on his face the dark haired dwarf followed the disappearing grey figure, pausing only to glance back once at the figure in the bed.

xXx

Unable to just stand around waiting for news, Fili and Kili found their way into the mountain where Dain and a cohort of his army were shifting rocks, making some of the main walkways secure and opening up the passages to the ordinary living quarters. Their uncle’s cousin looked up as they walked through the gaping hole left by the swinging bell.

“Boys, it’s good to see ye! That thrice damned drake caused more damage than a first look led us to believe. Come to give us old hands a… well, a hand?” his voice boomed across the hallway.

Fili grinned. “What? Fetch and carry? I don’t think that’s very becoming for two princes of the realm.”

“’Princes of the realm’ be damned.” The red haired dwarf grinned back as he climbed across the rubble, but his grin faded as he drew near to the two younger dwarves. “You found your friend then.” He said softly. “How is he?”

“Not good.” Kili mumbled, looking down at his gore spattered boots.

“A hobbit isn’t he? What’s a wee thing like that doing following you hairy lot on a quest to face a fire-drake?” Dain looked genuinely perplexed.

“It was Gandalf’s idea…” Fili began.

“That meddling old fool!”

“Be that as it may, Bilbo Baggins has been as loyal as any member of the company and has saved us more times than is honourable to admit.” The blond haired prince gazed slowly around at the working dwarves. “Were it not for him we’d still be in Thranduil’s dungeons rotting away or starving from lack of decent food.”

“And if that’s a way of chastising me for not answering your uncle’s call, then you’re right lad.” The older dwarf looked Fili in the eye. “I regret not having enough faith in Thorin – he had always intended to someday make the attempt to reclaim his birth right, this I knew well.  Things might have been different if…”

“I doubt it.” Kili frowned. “Sometimes there’s a reason for things…happening…” his voice trailed off as his companions stared at him. “What?”

“You’ve been talking to Tauriel.” Fili laughed.

“That doesn’t sound like a dwarven name.” Dain waggled his eyebrows.

“As if you weren’t aware of the elf in our camp.” Kili rolled his eyes. “Nothing gets past you Dain.”

“One of Thranduil’s I believe.”

“Not anymore.”

At that Dains eyebrows rose up to his hairline. “Defected?”

“Outcast for helping my brother. And she fought with Kili, Dwalin and I up on Ravenhill – apparently that didn’t go down too well either.”

Dain opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a call from one of his soldiers. He shrugged at the brothers. “Well, I can’t stand around gossiping all day – have ye come to help or not?”

“We thought we’d try to clean out some of the living quarters, can they be reached yet?”

Nodding Dain waved another dwarf to join them.

“Ninnir show the princes the safe route to the royal chambers – you can start there lads.”

Nodding their thanks Fili and Kili followed the warrior.

“Is Finnir your brother?” Fili asked conversationally as they made their way down into the depths of the mountain.

“He is Highness, you know of him?”

“Your brother helped us to find Master Baggins and bring him down from Ravenhill.”

Ninnir nodded. “He is the older, always first in line to get noticed.”

Kili chuckled. “I’ve got one like that – hey!” this last was yelled as Fili shoved his shoulder. “Oi, injured dwarf here, stop pushing me.”

His companions laughed, and Ninnir gave him a mock-sorrowful glance.

“I know how you suffer Highness.” He said with a grin, reaching up to grab a lighted flambeau from its wall bracket. “We’ll need more light from here onwards; it gets a bit dark down there.”

From another bracket he took another torch and lit it from the first, handing it to Fili. Kili frowned.

“You’ll need to keep your good hand free to keep your balance,” Ninnir explained. “There are still a few boulders and large stones waiting to trip the unwary dwarf.”

“Then lead onward!” Kili waved said free hand in invitation.

xXx

Thorin followed the grey wizard in silence, Dori handing him his warm fur-lined coat as he passed out of the outer sleeping area of their tent and into the cold evening air. When Gandalf finally stopped in front of mountain Thorin limped to his side and waited.

“Bilbo may not survive the night.” The wizard’s voice was low, flat, carrying no anger or accusation.

“Can you do nothing? Is there no… no _magic_ you can perform?”

Thick grey eyebrows rose.

“Oh I know.” Thorin sounded thoroughly defeated. “If I want Bilbo to be healed miraculously I need to find myself another wizard.”  He paraphrased Gandalf’s words from a conversation that seemed to have been had a lifetime ago.

“Do not despair my friend, our hobbit is a rather remarkable fellow, he may yet surprise us all.” The old Istari paused thoughtfully, as if weighing up his next words. “Are you aware…” he shook his head and started again. “Thorin, you know how he feels about you?”

“I remember… on the wall…”

“Yes?”

“He said I should…  I should know how he feels. He kissed me” Confused blue eyes turned up to look at Gandalf. “I didn’t know. I would never have threatened…”

“Thorin you were not yourself – Bilbo understood that.”

“I should not have let my grandfather’s sickness take me too – I should have listened to them, all of them.”

“You made it right in the end, and turned the tide of the battle.” Placing a gentle hand on Thorin’s shoulder Gandalf gave him a comforting squeeze, then turned and walked away, leaving the dwarf to stand staring at his reclaimed home.

xXx

Bard and Thranduil stood glaring at each other over the table in the latter’s tent.  On the centre of the table, wrapped in a piece of soft cloth, sat the Arkenstone.

“King Thranduil,” Bard reached for his patience as he made his plea once more, “We both know that to keep this stone will cause more animosity that it will resolve. I believe Gandalf when he says that Thorin Oakenshield is now free of the dragon-sickness – why he’s even sent word that we can move our most vulnerable people into the mountain as soon as a safe area can be cleared.”

“Again, you are eloquent on behalf of the dwarf that broke his word to you.”

“And you are just angry that he and his company managed to escape your dungeons thanks to a resourceful halfling.” A small smile curled across the man’s lips. “Come, swallow your pride and join me in negotiating a workable alliance.”

Thranduil snarled and turned his back, stalking towards his sleeping quarters. A voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Father,” Legolas struggled to keep the surprise out of his voice. “A representative from Thorin Oakenshield is outside; he has asked to speak with Master Bard.”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed for a second or two, and then he called for his guards.

 “Father he comes unarmed.”

“And?” Thranduil sneered.

“At least hear let us what he has to say.” Bard interrupted quietly, his eyes flicking between father and son, seeing the differences between them. “Legolas wouldn’t have brought them this far if he felt there was a threat – or would you prefer I go to him?”

“You are being ridiculous, why would I want you to go to him? Why would you want to speak with one of Oakenshield’s underlings when the so-called King under the Mountain should be grovelling to you for saving his worthless hide?”

Bard stifled a sigh.

“I can see the animosity goes both ways my lord, maybe it would be best if…”

“Pfft.” Thranduil waved a hand dismissively, turning his head to his son. “Bring the dwarf in.”

Sketching a bow Legolas stepped back out of the tent. In the intervening moments the elf king and the new ‘King of Dale’ watched each other, keeping their thoughts to themselves, only breaking eye contact when the younger elf returned with Ori reluctantly following.

The young dwarf swallowed thickly before bowing low before the two leaders.

“Ori, scribe to the Royal House of Durin, at your service.” He said, using the title Balin had assured him was now his.

A small smile curved Bards lips as he returned the bow.

“You wished to see me Master Ori?”

“Lord Bard, Master Balin has asked me to inform you that work moves on apace within Erebor, and to invite you to meet with him tomorrow morning to discuss moving your wounded as well as your women and children into the mountain.”

“And no doubt he will expect payment?” Thranduil sneered.

Ori frowned for a moment.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He said finally. “Why would you expect to have to pay for shelter?”

“Dwarves always want something…”

“Master Ori,” Bard stepped forward, interrupting what seemed to be the start of a long tirade from the elf king. “Tell Master Balin that I will gladly meet with him at a place and time of his choosing.”

“He suggests two hours after sunrise at the gates of Erebor, if that will suit?”

Bard nodded his agreement and watched as Ori bowed out of the tent before turning to Thranduil.

“I will hear what the dwarves have to say before any firm decision is made.” He said, reaching for a goblet of wine. “My people cannot survive the winter without better quarters, and the peoples of Dale and Erebor lived in harmony once before. Let’s hope they can do so again.”

“And what of the gold promised to you?”

“That is a discussion to be had with King Thorin.” Rubbing a tired hand over his face Bard stared into his drink. “The gold will mean nothing if the people of Dale freeze to death while we fight over broken promises.”

xXx

Thorin didn’t know how long he stood staring at his childhood home, seeing it first as it once was with strong gates and the sounds of life coming from within, then seeing it once more in flames, with his people running for their lives. He was still lost in the past when a voice pulled him back to the present.

“Uncle? Is everything alright?” Fili’s voice sounded worried, as if he’d spoken several times.

His heir stood there, with his brother beside him, and in the light of the torches that lined the paths both looked like they had been playing in the dirt like children.

“Maybe I should be asking you the same question?” Thorin raised a tired eyebrow and looked pointedly at the pair.

“We’ve been cleaning up the royal chambers,” Kili grinned.

“Well trying to,” Fili added. “Only we decided to look and see if the fire in your old room was serviceable.”

“Ah. Now I understand the filth clinging to you.” Turning his back on the mountain Thorin started to make his way slowly back to the camp. “I trust you didn’t hurt yourselves?”

“No, but we need to take some of the Company with us tomorrow if we’re going to get rooms cleared for us all.” Kili stopped suddenly, and looked closely at his uncle. “I thought… well, we thought… that the company could move into the level above the royal chambers?”

“That area was always reserved for high lords and important courtiers.”

“Oh. Maybe - ”               

“And as such I agree, it would be ideal for the Company. There are suites there large enough to take those who have families such as Bombur, and Gloin, as well as those who prefer to stay as a family unit as I know Bofur and Bifur would prefer.”

The brother’s shared a glance.

“And Bilbo?” Fili asked.

“If…” Clearing his throat Thorin tried again. “When he recovers he will be welcome to stay as long as he wishes, and as an honoured member of the Company he will be offered lodgings in the Hall of Lords.”

“What news?”

“I left Oin and your elf friend to look after him, Gandalf wished to speak to me and I left a number of the Company there so there was no shortage of help.” 

They were within sight of the main tent, and all three slowed their pace. In front of them was what seemed to be a frozen tableau – Bombur sitting watching a cooking pot, his large frame silhouetted in the glow of the fire, while a little way away Bofur sat chewing at his pipe, his hat still sitting firmly on his head. Next to him Bifur was carving a piece of wood with practiced ease, throwing the shavings on the fire.

Thorin had almost come to a halt when he felt a hand on his arm, and he looked across into Fili’s concerned face.

“He’s in the best hands Uncle, Oin and Tauriel will do their best for him.”

Nodding, the king straightened his back and strode forward into the tent.

Balin and Ori were sitting inside at the table the former had set up to conduct business. They looked up as Thorin ducked through the entrance.

“No news yet laddie,” Balin correctly read Thorin’s expression. “But there is hope.” He paused, then “Dain tells me a feasting hall is ready to take the wounded. We can start moving them in at dawn, first ours and then the men of Dale once we have discussed arrangements with Bard. We are to meet with him two hours past dawn. The market halls have been cleared, and there is enough space for us to move some of his people in there to shelter while they make safe enough of their city to move them back.”

“You will meet with him?”

Balin nodded. “Aye, it would be for the best. We know he’ll want to discuss their promised gold, but that can wait.”

“I have faith in you Balin, do what you think fit.” And with that Thorin moved through to the sickroom.

“Sire.” Tauriel rose from her seat beside Bilbo and bowed.

“I am not your king.” The words were harsh, and out of Thorin’s mouth before he could consider them.

“Yet this is your kingdom, you are its ruler, and as your guest I owe you obeisance.” The she-elf countered gently.

Narrowing his eyes Thorin stared at her but nothing in her demeanour showed anything other than calm respect. He stepped towards the bed.

“Where is Master Oin?”

“He has gone to discuss your friend with Lord Dain’s healers.”

After a moment’s silence he gestured towards the still figure of said friend. “How is he?”

“Master Baggins’ shoulder has been immobilised, the bone breakage was fairly clean and we can find no sign of internal damage, but Master Oin said we should take no chances and I agree with him. His legs were both badly grazed, and he had dislocated his knee – we have managed to put the joint back in place thanks to Mithrandir’s charm, and have done our best to immobilise that limb too.”

“Is that why you have him swaddled like a new born dwarfling?”

Tauriel smiled. “To keep him warm and still.” she said. “His clothes are unwearable so those blankets are the only thing between his skin and the air. The heat from the stove is a blessing, but until we can get some warm food into him we have to take care not to let him succumb to the cold.”

Moving past her the dark haired dwarf sat down on the chair she had just vacated.

“Go and get yourself some food Mistress Tauriel.” He said without taking his eyes from the pale face now clean of blood and with ointments smeared over the cuts and grazes.

“Thank you Sire.”

Tauriel bowed out of the sickroom, but her exit was ignored as Thorin settled his elbows onto his knees and rested his head in his hands.

From outside the tent he could hear the muted voices of his Company, the light teasing about the state of his nephews, and Bombur’s voice chastising them for sitting down to eat while covered in muck. He could picture the actions accompanying the sounds – Bifur dumping a pail of water beside his heirs and offering each a piece of rag to wash with,  Bofur helping his brother dish out bowls of mutton stew and handing them round.

A hand on his shoulder roused him from his reverie. Dwalin stood at his side, a bowl and spoon in hand.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I wasn’t askin’ if ye were.”  The tattooed warrior shoved the bowl unceremoniously into Thorin’s hands. “Oin says you need t’ eat, and he’s not wrong. I imagine our burglar there would have something to say about it if you starve yourself after he ran all the way up to Ravenhill to save you.”

Thorin’s head whipped round, anger blazing in his eyes, but Dwalin wasn’t overly impressed.

“Stop feeling sorry for yerself,” he said with a grin. “Bilbo is receiving the best treatment we can give him. That elf has been a help too – Oin is pretty impressed with her nursin’ skills, says she ain’t bad – for a warrior!” With a last glance at Bilbo Dwalin spun on his heel and rejoined the Company round the fire.

Reluctantly at first and then, as his appetite returned, with simple enjoyment Thorin ate the stew and then placed his bowl on the floor beside his chair.

Looking again at the still figure in the bed he reached out and gently ran a finger down the stitched gash that ran from Bilbo’s temple to his ear, deeper than the grazes on his cheek, and livid, a permanent reminder of Azog’s actions. Moving his hand to rest on top of the matted honey coloured hair as a shiver ran through the hobbit’s body, he leaned forward.

“Bilbo…”

xXx

_The world was awash with fire._

_Fire and pain._

_Fire and pain and…cold? How could that be? His chest and shoulder felt as if they were in the heart of Erebor’s furnaces, searing hot and painful, and his leg felt heavy and useless – dead – and he was cold yet not cold, it made no sense to him, the last time he had felt this cold had been… when? The memory was just out of his reach, and it hurt to try to find it._

_Something warm and gentle brushed against his face and Bilbo shivered, the movement sparking a thousand red hot pins to prick and stab at his body, and then the warm something moved. It lifted from his face and came to rest on his head, and the soft breeze of a word whispered into his ear… “Bilbo…”_


	8. Of Hobbits and Kings

Exhaustion and warm food conspired against Thorin as he sat in the chair beside Bilbo. When sleep took him his friends gently carried him across to his own bed and covered him with blankets, and Dwalin took his place beside the injured hobbit.

Dwalin was not the sentimental type, but he found it hard to look at the creature Gandalf had enlisted to their company without a twinge of guilt and not a little sadness. Bilbo had proved his worth time and time again, taking all of their leader’s insults in his stride (although Dwalin wasn’t stupid either – he could see the hurt it caused) and yet they had all at some point or another made fun of him, or laughed at his expense.

When Bofur had confided to his brother and cousin, one night in Beorn’s house, about Bilbo and how he had been intent on returning to Rivendell that the eavesdropping warrior had stopped to take stock of the little fellow.

From the very beginning he had considered the little hobbit to be too soft for the rigours of the journey, and for the first little while it seemed he was to be proved right – from his fussing about his missing handkerchief to his constantly chattering teeth whenever they slept out in the open; everything about him seemed wrong.  Like Thorin, Dwalin was inclined to hold Bilbo responsible for their capture by the trolls, and despite his quick thinking delaying tactics he still felt they wouldn’t have been in that situation had the burglar not been caught.

The knowledge of his near defection made Bilbo’s return after the incident in the goblin kingdom all the more incomprehensible despite his explanation, and when he threw himself between Thorin and Azog… had Dwalin had the time he would have marvelled at the dichotomy between the creature he thought he knew and the one standing, shaking like a leaf in front of the epitome of pure evil that had sworn to eradicate the line of Durin.

And if Thorin’s words were to be believed, Bilbo had done exactly the same thing a second time, only this time with dire consequences.

xXx

Soft whispers filtered into Thorin’s tired brain where he lay on his bed in the sickroom, and he blinked against the faint candle light in the tent. It was obvious from the lack of natural light that he hadn’t slept many hours into the night. He strained his ears to listen to what was being said.

“How did I end up here?” The voice, though cracked and dry was wonderfully familiar to the dwarf king – as was the responding voice.

“Me an’ some o’ the lads carried you down from Ravenhill. Do you remember what happened?”

Silence followed Dwalin’s question and Thorin lay still as they both waited for Bilbo’s answer.

“Thorin!” the hobbit cried suddenly, though the exclamation was followed by a wail of pain.

Thorin was up on his feet in an instant, just in time to see his friend and shield brother gently restraining the figure in the bed.

“Shhh.” The warrior admonished softly. “Oin won’t be best please if you undo all of his good work. Thorin is fine, as you can see.” This last was added as he tilted his head toward the dark haired dwarf hovering on the other side of the bed.

Pain-darkened blue eyes slid sideways, widening when they saw the truth of Dwalin’s words.

“Thorin.” Bilbo croaked again.

“I’ll leave you with ‘im while I fetch Oin – he’ll want to know you’re awake.” And with a nod he headed away to the main sleeping area.

Limping around the bed Thorin slumped down into the chair, making sure he was close enough for the hobbit not to need to strain to see him.

“Bilbo.” He said, at a loss for what else to say.

Injured he may have been, and more than a little confused, but Bilbo remembered well the events within Erebor, and so he waited. Waited to be told to pack his few belongings and leave as soon as he was able.

That instruction never came.

Oin bustled into the sickroom wiping sleep from his eyes, and lighting another candle he added to light to the room, making both of the other occupants blink.

“Now laddie,” he said kindly, leaning over and testing Bilbo’s temperature with the back of his hand. “Well, that doesn’t feel too bad, a little warmer than I would like it to be but not feverish. How do you feel?”

“Thirsty.”

Oin tutted first at Thorin, and then at Dwalin who had returned to the sickroom behind him.

“Did either of you two oafs think to give him a drink? Dwalin, fetch some water, and maybe a small bowl of the liquid from the stew – nothing he needs to chew mind! He won’t be ready for that.” Turning back to Bilbo he cast a critical eye over him. “You’re not to try to move on your own, you’ve broken your collarbone, and your shoulder.”

“My leg hurts.”

“Aye, that’ll be because you dislocated your knee. And you’ve got some nasty scrapes and gashes and not just on your legs, your face looks a bit of a mess but that should heal nicely – all except the cut we had to stitch…” He watched as Bilbo raised his left hand to tentatively touch his face, fingers carefully mapping the damage on the right hand side before moving down to the tight bandages holding his right arm pinned to his body.

Dwalin arrived with a cup of water in one hand and a bowl with some thick, warm liquor from their pot of stew in the other, and Oin suddenly became all business.

“Right Bilbo, I want you to let us do the work for you, don’t try to help, just relax. Thorin, I need you to lift him up into a sitting position…”

Moving to kneel beside the bed Thorin gingerly worked his arm under Bilbo’s injured shoulder, sliding further across the bed until his hand closed on the hobbit’s left arm, trying to ignore the way he tensed at the dwarf’s touch.

Once Bilbo was in a comfortable position to drink Oin took the cup from Dwalin and held it to his patient’s lips.

“Slowly now Bilbo, small sips.” The three dwarves watched as Bilbo did as he was told, swallowing small amounts of the cool liquid, a look of tired pleasure crossing his face.  It took a little time, but Bilbo finished the water and smiled his thanks to the healer.

After a short pause the ritual was repeated, this time with the warm broth. The only sound to break the silence within the sickroom was that of the hobbit sipping slowly from the bowl, and as the frequency of the sips grew less Thorin felt their burglar gradually relax and grow limp.

Startled blue eyes looked up at the company healer.

“Don’t fuss now,” Oin clearly read the question in the king’s face. “He has been through much, and I for one am amazed he woke as soon as he did. That he cannot stay awake should be no surprise to any of us, but at least we have managed to get some nourishment into him, and that can only be a good sign.”

xXx

In the outer tent most of the rest of the company were sleeping, their bedrolls and blankets lining the canvas sides and leaving a pathway through the middle from the tent flaps to the sickroom.

Outside, tending the fire and ensuring that the large pot of stew stayed warm Kili and Tauriel kept watch, Kili because he couldn’t sleep well with his arm throbbing – the result of trying to do too much – and the she-elf because she wanted to.

They kept their backs to the company tent and their voices low as they sat and talked.

“Why did you do it?” Kili finally voiced the question that had been plaguing him since before the battle.

Tauriel didn’t pretend not to understand. Her eyes remained fixed on the flames in front of her as she replied. “At first it was anger with the orcs. The one we had captured boasted that you had been poisoned – he was quite proud of the fact that you would die…”

Kili waited, sensing more was to come.

“My king said that the life of a dwarf didn’t concern him, it made me so…” words failed her, and Kili marvelled at the anger flashing in her eyes. “I left while he was still interrogating the prisoner, and followed the river until I picked up your trail.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“So am I.” She turned her eyes to his, a smile lighting them brighter than any flame could. “That word you said, that name…”

“Amrâlimê.”

“It means…?”

“My love.” Kili smiled. “You are my love, no matter what others may think, or say.”

“And your King?”

Mention of his uncle wiped the smile from Kili’s face, and he swallowed hard.

“I’ll deal with Thorin.”

“Will you?”

“I have my brother’s support.”

“But you are heir to the throne of Erebor…”

“Third in line.” A small smile returned to the dark haired dwarf’s features. “There is no need for them to consider me at all, the line is secure in Fili; no doubt he’ll marry one of the many dwarrowdams he left crying for him back in Ered Luin.”

“And did you?” a well-defined eyebrow rose. “Were there dwarrowdams crying for you too?”

“I didn’t notice.” Kili laughed, adding softly “My heart was waiting for you.”

xXx

The only sound that broke the silence in the sickroom at the back of the company tent was that of Bilbo’s ragged breathing. Whatever spell Gandalf had cast to ease his pain had long since faded, and it was obvious that he was suffering.

The sound disturbed Thorin more than he would have liked to admit. He had seen battle, sat with friends and comrades as they slowly succumbed to the pain of their injuries, yet it had never affected him as strongly as this.

Oin had asked him to keep a check on the hobbit’s temperature, and as the pained groans grew in strength he placed the back of his hand against Bilbo’s forehead. He frowned. Bilbo’s temperature was definitely higher than when he had checked earlier. He stood up and moved to look through the doorway to the outer tent.

His company were slowly waking, some already moving about, and others still lying on their bedrolls bleary eyed. A hard look came into Thorin’s eyes when he noticed his youngest nephew.

Kili’s bedroll was next to the blanket nest that Tauriel had made for herself, and he was lying on his back, arm outstretched, his hand touching hers. A soft cough drew his attention away, and he looked towards Fili. The blond dwarf put a finger to his lips and shrugged his head towards the tent door then turned and walked out into the fresh pre-dawn air.

Thorin caught Oin’s arm and led him back towards the sickroom, using Inglishmek to update the healer on the hobbit’s condition. That done, he swiftly joined his heir who was currently revitalising the fire and setting water to boil.

“They took a double watch together last night.” Fili said quietly without turning around. “Kili is having trouble sleeping, and doesn’t want to keep dosing up on Oin’s pain relief, says it makes him feel sick.”

“Aye, I find that myself.” Thorin nodded. “That doesn’t explain why he’s holding hands with that…” closing his eyes he took a deep, calming breath. “…that _elf_.”

“That ‘elf’ saved his life Thorin, helped him make a useful contribution to our search for Bilbo, and kept his mind from his pain during the long hours of the night watch.”  Straightening up Fili turned and looked his uncle in the eye. “He’s asleep, for Mahal’s sake; be happy that he’s not lying there in agony – be happy that he’s not dead!”

“Fili…” His nephew’s quiet words hurt him more than wanted to admit, and he reached out a hand to the younger dwarf. Fili took hold of his forearm in a firm grip.

“Forgive me uncle, that was uncalled for.” He said.  “I suppose I’m just a bit unsettled…the poison… the battle… I never realised until now how close I came to losing my little brother.”

The dwarf king put his hand to the back of Fili’s head and gently rested their foreheads together.

 “It is I who should ask forgiveness of all of you…”

“We were not blameless laddie,” Balin’s voice came from behind. “We saw what was happening, but did nothing until it was too late.”

Thorin turned. The rest of the company bar Kili were gathered next to the white haired dwarf, watching intently.

“Nevertheless, I owe you all an apology.” He bowed his head in acknowledgement of that fact, and then stood tall once more, raising a querying eyebrow. “You are all awake very early.”

“Breakfast, and then we’re to either help Dain’s men move our injured people into the mountain or clear quarters for the company.” Bombur said as he stomped around to the far side of the fire and stirred the stew pot. “And this won’t last forever, so we might as well finish it now.”

Without waiting for agreement, the company cook started to dish out the remaining hot food, passing bowls around, putting three aside for Oin, Kili and Tauriel.

The healer joined them before too long and taking up his bowl sat beside his brother to address the group.

“Bilbo’s temperature is climbing, but as yet not dangerous.” He said around a mouthful of meat and potatoes. “I’ve left Tauriel with him, and she is keeping his forehead cool with damp cloths.”

“Why has this happened now?” Thorin asked, his eyes intent on the flames in front of him. “What did I miss?”

Oin groaned and rolled his eyes.

“It’s no fault of yours that this is happening.” He replied tartly. “Tauriel and I believe it’s his body’s reaction to those cuts and bruises, as if it’s fighting to keep any possible infection at bay.”

Dori nodded sagely.

“You could be right,” he said thoughtfully. “Ori used to blow up a temperature every time he cut himself when he was a dwarfling.”

Ori blushed scarlet, and Nori elbowed his older brother.

“Stop embarrassing him.”

Dori opened his mouth to argue but Thorin waved him to silence as Oin cleared his throat pointedly.

“The elf has volunteered to stay with him, her healing skills are not to be underestimated, nor her knowledge of herbs. I’ll be with you to help move the injured, she will send Kili for me if Bilbo’s condition warrants it.” The healer stood and nodded to the eastern horizon. “Sun’s coming up lads, and we have work to do.”

xXx

Bard followed the trail of sick and injured dwarves being carried up to the entrance to Erebor. It seemed as if the whole of the dwarf encampment was involved in either carrying or being carried, and as each tent was emptied a cross was marked on it with charcoal.

“Lord Bard.” Balin’s voice interrupted the man’s musings. “Greetings. I am pleased to see you well.”

“And I you, Master Balin.”

Balin smiled, and waved a hand. “Let me take you in to the market halls, there are two cleared for your use.”

“Two?”

“We were not sure how many injured you have, but thought to put them in the one hall, and your women and children in the other…” the old dwarf paused for a moment, then added “and we would understand if you wished to move some able bodies men in to protect them, we do not ask you to trust us blindly – only to let us try to make amends as best we can.”

They had walked as Balin talked, and soon Bard found himself in a large stone hall. It wasn’t the warmest place in Middle Earth, but it was dry, and out of the winter wind.

“Is the other hall…?”

“About the same.” Balin replied.

“And those?” Bard pointed to two large stone half pillars placed in the middle of the hall, at a third and two thirds of the way down the length of the room.

“Lord Dain’s men built them, they are temporary fireplaces, this is a market hall, it has no use for fires generally, but we offered shelter and warmth…”

“I thank you for your help Master Balin.” The man glanced back over his shoulder, seeing the last of the injured dwarves being carried in. “And where is King Thorin?”

“At present he’s deeper in the mountain surveying the living quarters.” Balin led the way back out to the main entrance, where the two then stood looking over the sea of dwarven tents. “The plan is to move as many of Dain’s army as we can temporarily into general quarters, and then those of your people that we cannot house in the market halls can move into the tents nearest the mountain.” At Bard’s enquiring look he smiled kindly. “We thought it would bring them closer to their families and friends, and closer to the food supplies. Dain has already called for more supplies from the Iron Hills; it is our intention to share whatever we have.”

“And who pays for this?” There was a suspicious note in Bard’s voice that he was unable to hide.

“We have gold enough in Thror’s treasury to pay for the food and medicines that are being sent. There is no reason for you or your people to fret.”

“What of the gold Oakenshield promised us?”

“That is a separate issue, one that you will be discussing with Thorin once we have our peoples settled.”

A frown still creased the lake-man’s brow, but he held his tongue against the arguments that tried to make themselves heard.

Balin rubbed his hands together and then gestured towards a group of dwarves, headed by his brother, that were making their way out of the mountain.

“Dwalin and the lads will accompany you to collect the first of your wounded and bring them in; they have all been instructed to take their orders from you until we have as many of your people as we can fit into the market halls,” he paused and looked earnestly at the man. “Then we can discuss allocation of tents.”

Bard smiled thinly. “Thank you Master Balin.” He said, turning away. He had barely taken two steps before turning back once more to ask “How is Master Baggins? I heard he had been found.”

“He is very poorly, but we have high hopes that now he has woken, albeit briefly, he is on the road to recovery.”

“I’m glad.” Bard nodded, smiling once more as he turned to lead Dwalin and the dwarves towards his own encampment.

xXx

Thorin walked the passageway leading from the Hall of Lords. Kili had been right to suggest the company move into the living quarters there, and currently Dori and his brothers and Bofur and family were cleaning and checking them for immediate habitation. Fili and Gloin were finishing off several of the royal chambers, and Dain with several of his soldiers, was currently clearing what would have been the barracks that had housed those unmarried soldiers who preferred to remain with their Company.*

As his footsteps carried him down to where Dain was working Thorin allowed himself the luxury of acknowledging, if only to himself, that his injuries were hurting like the devil and that he would rather be sitting in the tent than walking through the home he had dreamed of regaining for more than half of his life. 

“A silver penny for your thoughts.” A voice ahead of him said, and he looked up to see Balin walking towards him.

“How goes the resettlement of the injured from Dale?”

“It moves on apace,” Balin fell into step beside his king. “Dwalin and some of Dain’s lads are helping to carry them up, and we have all the available healers working between the two sickrooms.”

Thorin nodded and walked on, deep in thought.

“I saw the young elven prince, Legolas, while I was waiting for Lord Bard to arrive,” The older dwarf said conversationally. “He asked after yourself and your nephews, and seemed pleased enough to hear that you were all faring well.”

Thorin grunted a non-committal response.

“He also asked permission to visit Master Baggins – I saw no reason to deny him.”

“No, I didn’t think you would.”

Balin waited a while before speaking again; broaching a subject that he knew might spark argument.

“What of Bilbo Thorin, where do you want him taken? To the dwarven sickroom or that of the men?”

“I would rather it were neither.”

“To take him straight to his rooms in the Hall of Lords would mean that we would have to take a healer away from the majority of the injured just for one hobbit – that won’t exactly endear him to our brothers from the Iron Hills, nor the men of Dale…”

“But? I hear an unspoken ‘but’ there…”

“You always were more perceptive than you make out to be.” Balin smiled. “If you are amenable I would like to suggest you leave Bilbo’s care in Tauriel’s capable hands…” He held up a hand as he sensed an explosion coming from his companion. “Hear me out Thorin. Tauriel is more than able to look after him, and if you allow Kili to assist her then not only would his healing be monitored, but he would also be available to fetch Oin should he be needed.”

The pair had slowed to a halt, and now Thorin turned to stare at his oldest advisor.

“That would mean having that elf deep within Erebor.”

“Yes it would,” Balin agreed, “but you offered her shelter until other arrangements could be made, and so far she has busied herself with taking care of Bilbo and keeping Kili from further damaging his broken arm – there has been no time for other arrangements.”

“You offer a good argument.” Thorin sighed.

“I’ve had years of practice.” Balin gave his king a twinkling wink. “And you know it makes sense, no matter how much you wish it didn’t.”

“So be it,” Thorin huffed a small laugh. “I’m outmanoeuvred as usual. I suppose I should ask for a room to be made ready for her in the Hall of Lords.”

“I think you’ll find that the lads are one step ahead of you there – they like her, and with your offer of shelter they would have taken it upon themselves to be ready for any eventuality.”

Thorin just rolled his eyes and walked away towards the barracks.

xXx

Bilbo groaned as the makeshift litter swayed in time to the movement of his friends march across the rocky ground. On one side of him Tauriel walked keeping one eye always on his pain levels, and on the other side Kili kept his mind on the news that his elf would be honoured with rooms amongst the company, and a position of trust as their burglar’s healer. He found it hard to keep the smile from his face.

As they entered the mountain Bilbo’s eyes flickered open, blinking sleepily in the torch-light.

“Where are we going?” he croaked, not turning his head but hoping that one of the figures in his peripheral heard his question. A hand brushed his, and a soft voice answered

“We are taking you to your rooms. I will attend you, and Prince Kili will keep you company.”

“Kili? Oh thank goodness! What of his brother?” The hobbit’s breathing became ragged at his agitated words.

“I’m fine,” Fili was one of the dwarves carrying the litter. “As are the rest of the company.”

Bilbo squinted, his eyes sliding sideways, picking out the figure of the younger Durin.

“That looks like a bandage…”

“He broke his arm.” The soft voice spoke once more, pulling Bilbo’s attention to the person walking on his other side.

“Bilbo, I’d like you to meet Tauriel, formerly of the woodland realm…” Kili’s grin was evident in his voice, but the hobbit frowned a little at his words.

“Formerly…?”

“My king and I had a…. difference of opinion. I chose to follow my conscience rather than his orders.”

“Can get you in trouble, that.” Bilbo’s eyes closed again and he seem to be drifting back to sleep, only to rouse again momentarily to add “I doubt I’ll ever be seen as respectable again when I get back to the Shire Mistress Tauriel, seems as if we’re both in the same boat.” He missed the concerned looks and the mumbles of consternation as he let blackness overtake him once more.

xXx

At last the barracks were ready to receive Dain’s soldiers, and the lord of the Iron Hills stood to one side with his cousin to watch the first of his army take up quarters.

“You will join us in the royal chambers?” Thorin asked as the Iron Hills soldiers filed in carrying what few belongings they had with them.

“Up with royalty, eh cousin?” Dain’s voice echoed loud in the tall hallway. “Don’t mind if I do!”

Thorin returned the other’s grin.

“Always did have ideas above your station.” He quipped lightly, then turned to place his hand on Dain’s shoulder, saying more seriously “You have earned it cousin, without your army we would have perished.”

“Pish!” Dain exclaimed. “Why, ye had a whole army of tree-shaggers to command! We were just the back-up boys.”

His hearty laugh was contagious and Thorin couldn’t help but join in, feeling lighter in spirit than he had since before the fall of his grandfather’s kingdom.

“I doubt Thranduil would agree with your assessment of his army’s allegiance and command structure…”

“What does he know? He was too busy bouncing around on that giant moose of his.”

“It died.”

“What did?”

“The moose.” Thorin grinned. “Or so your lads believe, they were discussing whether or not Thranduil would let them skin it and eat it.”

Dain pulled a face and shrugged. “We could always do with more meat rations.”

“Aye. And I must thank you for the supplies you have organised, be sure to give Gloin full accounts for them.”

“I will, never fear.” Dain glanced over Thorin’s shoulder, bringing his cousin’s attention to Balin who was at that moment walking towards them.

“Thorin, I’m glad I found you.” The white haired advisor called as he drew near. “King Thranduil has requested a meeting.”

Thorin sighed and rolled his shoulders as if in preparation for a fight, and spoke to no-one in particular when he said “Speak of the Balrog and his claws shall appear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A/N: A military ‘Company’ consists of 100 – 250 soldiers. I envisage Erebor having probably five full companies, of which maybe 50% were unattached soldiers.


	9. Within the Lonely Mountain

Striding towards the entrance to the mountain Thorin caught sight of Dwalin, and with a quiet word to Balin he crossed quickly to pull the warrior aside for a hushed conversation. Around them dwarves went about their business oblivious to Dwalin's gesticulating as he emphasised his side of the discussion, or the absorbed concentration on the face of the newly restored King under the Mountain. Moreover, not one of them thought anything of it when said King hailed his Company scribe and after a brief moment of instruction sent him scurrying off into the mountain.

Satisfied with his arrangements Thorin finally joined Balin, Thranduil and Legolas in the now vacant Company tent. With a curt nod he indicated that his guests should sit, and smirked a little at the elf king's grimace when he realised that the only 'chairs'available were upturned logs that hadn't yet been chopped up for firewood.

xXx

Pulling the blankets up and around the sleeping hobbit’s shoulders, Tauriel retook her seat beside the fire.

“He sleeps a lot.” Kili observed from his chair on the opposite side of the hearth. “I suppose that’s normal…”

“Well certainly, the herbs that I give him encourage rest, and sleep helps the healing process.” The elf smiled at him and glanced up through her lashes. “And they are far better for his wellbeing than Oin’s poppy juice.”

“I heard Dwalin say that stuff is dangerous.”

“And he’s right. Too much and at best the body will crave it constantly – at worst it can kill.” Tauriel shrugged. “It has its uses, and I have a small quantity to hand in case his pain increases beyond bearing, but I’m hoping that with the herbs I have used he will be comfortable.”

“Bilbo is very lucky to have you looking after him.” Kili’s brown eyes darkened as he took in the light blush that tinged the other’s cheeks. “Would that I were that lucky…”

Tauriel’s eyebrows rose in disbelief.

“And who has been making sure you don’t damage your arm further by trying to do too much?”

“My uncle, by assigning me babysitting duties.”

“You wish to be somewhere else? Do you no longer wish for my company?” there was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Should I maybe ask your brother to keep me company?”

“Don’t you dare!” Kili laughed “I’ll never get you back once he sees how….” He broke off, glancing furtively towards the bed as if Bilbo was about to spring up and run to Thorin with tales. With a blush heating his cheeks he turned the subject.

“Tell me about the Caves of Menegroth.”

“Your uncle believes them sunk beneath the Western Sea…”

“And are they?” Kili leaned forward, intent, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked into Tauriel’s shining eyes.

“It is very likely – they were at the heart of Beleriand, and when it was destroyed during the War of Wrath the caves were flooded. They were wonderous, richly decorated with wood and stone carvings, and paintings the like of which we no longer see. The Sindar mourned the loss of their heartland as much as the loss of souls. All children of the Firstborn are told the stories as a history of our people, and as a warning against letting the powers of evil run unchecked.”

“So that is why you fought the spiders so fiercely?”

“In our histories we learn that they are servants of Melkor, they have no good in their hearts…” Tauriel’s words were interrupted by a light tapping on the door, the only warning they received before Ori poked his head into the room.

“May I come in?” his voice was little more than a whisper as he glanced towards the sleeping hobbit.

“Certainly Master Ori” Tauriel smiled at the scowl on Kili’s face. At times like this he looked more than ever like his uncle. “What can we do for you?”

Closing the door behind him the young scribe came to stand beside them.

“Thorin sent me with a message for you.”

He looked, much to their surprise, directly at Tauriel. Kili tensed, waiting for bad news, but the she-elf sat calm and perfectly still. Ori seemed not to notice as he continued with his errand.

“Apparently King Thranduil is outside the mountain.Thorin was on his way to meet him, and he asked me to advise you that if you wished to see him you could go down now while I stay with Bilbo, but if you have no wish to see him then no one is going to force you, no matter what the elf king says.” Ori sucked in a deep breath after repeating his verbatim message.

“Thank you Master Ori.” Tauriel smiled up at him.

“Um…how is Bilbo?” Flustered at being caught in the glow of the she-elf’s smile Ori fiddled with his mittens, pulling on a loose thread until the garment almost unravelled.

“He is doing well, sleeping at the moment as you can see. His shoulder will take a long time to heal, and it may never be quite the same again, but that is a bridge we have yet to cross.”

“Is there any food?” Kili broke in. “I mean, for when he wakes – he’s bound to be hungry.”

“There were several cooking fires in the old barracks kitchens, and the last of the meat is being chopped and added to the stew pots. I think they’re feeding the sick first, then the women and children from Laketown, men and warriors last.” The scribe shrugged. “Apparently that was Lord Dain’s idea – reckons his fighters don’t need much to keep them going, and he’s already had wordthat more supplies should be with us by tomorrow night.”

Kili nodded.

“I’d better get back.” Ori waved vaguely towards the door. “I’ll bring up some food as soon as it’s ready – you can keep Bilbo’s warm by the fire.” Without waiting for a response he hurried out, leaving the others alone once more.

“Will you go down?”

Tauriel shook her head. “There is nothing I wish to say to King Thranduil.”

“So, when Bilbo is well again, when winter is past, will you set out on your journey to find these lost caves?”

Kili looked everywhere but into the face of the one he loved until, while he stared at the floor between his feet she moved forward, kneeling in front of him and leaning forward to look up into his eyes.

“It was never my intention to make that journey.” She admitted softly. “But as I refuse to beg, either from my king or from yours, I had to say something.”

“Then what will you do?”

Tauriel shrugged.

“I don’t know…”

“Another bridge we have yet to cross?” Kili smiled at her.

“Will you cross it with me?”

Leaning down, the dwarf pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.

“With all my heart.”

xXx

Perfectly comfortable on his makeshift chair Thorin stared at Thranduil, waiting.

"So Thorin Oakenshield, you once again have your mountain."

"I do"

With a disdainful curl of his lip the eleven king looked down his nose at his host. "I am pleased to see the news that your wounds were minor has proved to be the truth" he drawled, looking anything but pleased. 

Thorin simply dipped his head in acknowledgement, his eyes never leaving other. "I'm sure you have not asked to meet with me simply to see for yourself that I still live."At his side he felt Balin tense slightly, but he merely sat and waited for Thranduil's answer.

"You intend to have yourself crowned King under the Mountain sometime soon?"

"What is it to you?" despite the calmness of Thorin’s words Balin moved closer and placed a hand on his shoulder as if to prevent him leaping to his feet.

In response Thranduil simply stared, and in the lengthening silence the older dwarf spoke up.

"There is much work to do to make the mountain habitable again King Thranduil, and although by birthright he is and has for the greater part of his life been King under the Mountain, we intend to hold a formal coronation ceremony once we have a home fit to welcome our kin back to."

Cool grey eleven eyes surveyed the king's advisor as if weighing his words to seek the truth of them.

"It will be a good day when your people return King Thorin." 

All eyes turned to the tall blond figure standing just within the inner tent. Legolas quirked a brief smile at the two dwarves, ignoring the cold hard stare of his father - he was aware that his defiance had yet to be truly forgiven, no matter how pleased the king was that they had both survived the battle relatively unscathed. 

“Indeed it will, your Highness" Ever the diplomat, Balin smiled and bowed graciously.

Thranduil waved a dismissive hand."Be that as it may, there is now the matter of payment that must be discussed." He stared icily at the dwarves, unaware of his son's cringing frown at his father's words.

Thorin, glancing up from under his lashes, caught the younger elf's expression.

Standing at his friend and king's shoulder Balin expected an eruption of vitriol - what he actually heard was Thorin's rich throaty chuckle.

“You wish to be paid?" The dwarf king smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "And what price do you consider adequate payment for a treacherous elf whose original aim when coming here was to demand a share of Erebor's wealth?"

Thranduil's eyes stretched wide in surprise, but Thorin had more to say.

"What about compensation for falsely imprisoning myself and my company? And for the way you turned your back on my people when Smaug came, what compensation for that your Majesty?"

"You were trespassing..."

"We were passing through, you had no cause..."

"You were up to no good, why else would you have travelled that particular route?"

"Had there been a viable alternative we would never have set foot in that Mahal forsaken wood, with its sickness, and its spiders..."

"Father..."

Thranduil's head whipped round as if he would admonish his son, but then he recalled where he was and stopped, turning slowly back to look at the dwarf.

"And how is Master Baggins? I understand he was injured during the battle, believed lost for a while, but Mithradir assures me he is alive and being looked after in your mountain."

Not liking the sudden change of topic Thorin paused, considering whether or not Balin would let him throw the elven king out of the tent.

"Master Baggins is none of your concern." He replied at last.

"Are you so sure? He came to us before the battle..."

"You are wrong - he went to the Bowman, to Bard." Thorin knew this to be true, the wizard had assured him that Bilbo had never intended to give his heirloom to any other.

A sly, knowing look graced the eleven king's pale face.

"Ah yes, he went to make good your promise, to offer up the Arkenstone in place of the gold you promised...."

"Master Baggins is honourable, he had given his word on my behalf. When in my sickness I refused to acknowledge my promise he did what he thought was right to make reparation." Thorin rose to his feet and paced away to the back of the tent, and then turning to stare at Thranduil. "I would know why you feel the need to bring him into this discussion."

"Would it surprise you to know that he spoke eloquently on your behalf? He defended your honour despite all that we could see to be true - that you would rather..."

"What do you want, Thranduil?"

Balin's eyes widened in surprise at his king's tone - not anger as he expected, but boredom. 

The elf king's eyes also stretched wide, not surprise but shock. He watched as the dark haired dwarf returned to his seat, then leaned forward, a snarl marring his angular features.

“I want the white jewels of Lasgalen, they belong to me, to my people. Also, you have one of my guards here in your mountain. I demand that you allow her to return.”

The silence hung thick over the four occupants of the tent as one waited, one considered, and two watched on in anticipation. At last Thorin nodded.

“For your losses during this battle I will grant you the white gems you have for so long coveted, but as for the Lady Tauriel, she is under my protection and will return to you only if it is her wish to do so.”

“You cannot hold her hostage!”

“I do not. I merely honour with the offer of shelter and security one who has risked not just her position in your guard, but also her life in order to aid my kin.” His eyes moved from Thranduil’s grey ones to the pale blue eyes of the younger elf. “As you did Prince Legolas, my thanks are due to you also.” 

Legolas bowed in response, speechless, while Balin saw an immediate means to end this nerve-wracking meeting.

“King Thranduil, we intend to hold a ceremony three days hence to honour those who died in defense of both Dale and Erebor, you and your son are welcome to attend and at the end of the proceedings we could present the gems as a token of friendship.”

From the expression on his face it was quite clear that Thranduil was far from happy with the suggestion, but he was unable to voice his displeasure without sounding like a greedy, petulant child. Instead he sneered down at the dwarves.

“Our dead are already being carried home. I will not leave them to rot in this forsaken land.”

“Nor would we expect you to,” Balin interjected smoothly, his gentle smile never once slipping despite the other’s antagonism.“But we would honour them none the less.”

“I look forward to welcoming you then.” Thorin’s voice belied his words as he stood to leave. “We will send word of the final arrangements, but for now I fear we still have much to do before the halls are ready. I shall leave you with Lord Balin here, he will make note of anything, within reason, that you wish to add to the ceremony.”

And on that note he left the tent, walking away with the merest hint of a limp to indicate how much pain he was in.

Balin blinked as he watched him go, and then turned his smile back to the Elven King.

“Now your Majesty…”

xXx

Bilbo didn’t want to open his eyes. Everything from the hair on the top of his head to the tips of his long toes ached, and he was afraid that any movement would just set those aches ratcheting out of control.

He was hot, and his skin itched with the heat, but he vaguely recalled the elf, Tauriel, telling him not to try to move without assistance.

“Can we remove the covers please?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you laddie.” 

Bilbo’s eyes shot open.

“Dwalin!”

“Aye lad, now you just lay still and let me sit you up. Ori brought some food for you and I’ve been keeping it warm on the hearth.” The bulky warrior moved around to gently  ease the hobbit up, one hand pushing cushions behind to support him. 

“The covers?” Bilbo questioned, freeing his uninjured arm from under them.

“You’re as naked as the day you were born underneath those blankets lad,” Dwalin grinned. “I think you might prefer to stay covered.”

Fiery red colour – nothing to do with his raised temperature – raced up Bilbo’s face and tinged the very tips of his ears. Tauriel had been his constant companion since they had moved him into the mountain; she had been there every time he woke up.Surely she…? His thoughts were interrupted by the scraping of chair legs across the stone floor as Dwalin settled himself down to feed him.

“Surely you have more important things to do than play nursemaid.” Bilbo observed quietly after gratefully swallowing the first few mouthfuls of the surprisingly tasty stew.

“Aye, but a warrior needs to eat too, and a chance to rest is always welcome.” Dwalin replied thoughtfully. “Was Bofur’s idea this, for us all to take a turn to sit with you, it means the work doesn’t stop, but we all get the chance to rest and eat.”

“I’m not surprised, Bofur’s a lot more sensible than he pretends to be.” Chewing the next mouthful, Bilbo let his eyes rove around the room.He could see that Dwalin had lit extra lamps, giving him a better view of his quarters.

“You’re in the hall o’ Lords.” Dwalin informed him as he encouraged him to take another mouthful of food. “Every member of the company has been given quarters here except, of course, the Royal family. They’re in…”

“The Royal quarters, yes I assumed that much.” Bilbo responded drily, a small frown dinting his forehead. 

“Something wrong?”

“Dwalin, why am I here?”

The warrior frowned back at him as if he didn’t understand the question.

“I mean,” Bilbo hastened to add. “Why the Hall of Lords? At best I expected to be put in with the other wounded, at worst left out in the camp…” His eyes widened suddenly and the blood drained from his face. “Unless it’s protect me from the anger of Dain’s army…?”

“Don’t be daft lad…”

“Yes, that must be it. I cannot blame them for hating me; after all I did steal the King’s jewel and hand it over to the lake men.” Turning sad eyes up to his heavily tattooed companion Bilbo asked plaintively “Will they at least grant me safe passage to leave?”

Dwalin opened his mouth to refute the hobbit’s words, but Bilbo’s eyes were drooping, so he put the food aside and gently lowered his companion back down into a more comfortable sleeping position.

“Don’t worry about leaving yet,” he said quietly. “You concentrate on healing first.”

But Bilbo was already asleep.

xXx

Dawn brought with it a snowstorm of epic proportions.

Thranduil had pulled his people back to the forest on the far side of Dale, back into familiar surroundings from where he could reorganize his remaining troops. Still torn about remaining for the in two day’s and returning to his home, the elven king had snarled at his son that even if he were offered a place he would not stay within the confines of the mountain, preferring rather to wait under familiar skies.Legolas thought privately that it would be a cold day in the Undying Lands before his father would receive such an invitation from Thorin Oakenshield.

Outside the mountain, in the tents nearest to the repaired entrance gate Bard and the remainder of his people sheltered from the storm. He had taken what was originally Thorin’s company tent as his base, he and his family sleeping in the once sickroom, while the outer tent was put to use as a meeting room, not unlike its former occupation.Balin had arranged for the portable stoves to be left in the tents where possible, and for that Bard was grateful as winter bared her teeth and howled her fury around the camp.

Within the Erebor its new king had risen early, his footsteps leading him to the two halls designated as infirmaries.

The dwarven casualties had been taken into the old feasting halls, and he stopped by there first to talk to healer and healing alike, expressing his thanks and acknowledging their hard work and sacrifice, talking easily to the soldiers in the same manner that had won him affection and loyalty when he led his people to safety so many years ago, and he left behind considerable happier casualties as he made his way towards the market halls.

Thorin was aware enough of the men’s feelings towards him and his company, the fact that they were homeless because of his quest, to know that he wouldn’t get a welcome such as he had received from his cousin’s people.Stepping quietly through the door he looked around for the healers, but found himself looking up at a hard-faced woman wearing a hat almost as odd as Bofur’s.

“Mistress…?”

“Hilda Blanca. What’s your business in here Master Dwarf?”

“I came to see if your injured needed anything more.” Thorin drew himself up to his full height, which was still significantly shorter than the woman in front of him. “I am…”

“I know who you are Master Oakenshield, King under the Mountain.” Hilda turned and led him between the rows of sleeping injured. “We need more food, and blankets – not just for the wounded, but for them as have been left outside. They’ll soon be buried under snowdrifts as high as my shoulder.”

“But you are housed within the mountain?”

“Aye, all the better to take my turn with nursing these poor buggers.” She stopped, and looked thoughtfully down at her feet.“It was good of you to bring the women and children in, and men to put their minds at ease in these strange surroundings, but our new lord is out there with his children and with menfolk who are not much better off than these laying here.”

“You would have me move them inside Mistress Blanca?”

“I would have that none of this had happened but my wish will never be granted so…” She looked back at him. “I’m not greedy, or ungrateful Master Oakenshield, but I fear for those left to fend for themselves against the elements…”

“And rightly so.” Thorin nodded, his brow knitted in a thoughtful frown. “If you will trust me to deal with this as best I can?”

“I have no option but to trust you sir.”

Thorin nodded in acknowledgement and turned on his heel. “Then I will do my best not to disappoint.” He said grimly as he left the room.

xXx

The kitchens and communal eating area attached to the barracks had been put to good use since the dwarves had moved in, and it was to this dining room that Thorin made his way, still mulling over the woman’s words and wishes.

He was pleased to find he wasn’t the only early riser. Bombur and one or Dain’s cooks had started making a vat of thick porridge, the supplies from the Iron Hills having made it just hours before the storm. Sitting down and already tucking into their breakfast he found Dwalin, Kili and Tauriel, and he crossed the room to take a seat beside them, grabbing his own bowl of porridge on the way.

His nephew and cousin nodded acknowledgement, barely breaking the rhythm of the rising spoons feeding them. Tauriel was a deal more respectful, putting her spoon down and rising to bow gracefully.

“Be seated Lady Tauriel.” Thorin found himself smiling at her. “And tell me how Master Baggins fares.”

“He was still sleeping when we left him your Majesty, Nori and Ori are watching over him.” She thought for a moment then added “I believe he is still in enough pain to require the herbs I have prepared for him, but he had eaten regularly, and managed to stay away long enough to hold a conversation”

“Good, good.”

“You should come and see him Uncle, I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you.”

“I’m afraid I’m far too busy at the moment Kili,” Thorin held up his hand when the younger dwarf opened his mouth to argue. “And I’m sure that Master Baggins will heal a lot faster without me hovering over him, reminding him…” He drew a deep breath. “And I need to find Dain and Balin, have they been in to eat yet.”

His three companions watched in confusion as he pushed away his barely touched food.

“Aye” Dwalin eventually answered. “My brother went down to one of the small chambers above the store rooms, the better – he said – to arrange fair shares of food.”

Thorin nodded and rose to his feet. “Then that is where I shall be, send Dain to me should you see him.”

As they watched him walk out of the room Kili reached across and snagged his uncle’s unfinished porridge.

“Waste not, want not!” he grinned as his companions laughed.

xXx

In the Hall of Lords Bilbo lay with his eyes shut listening to Nori and Ori quietly bickering, but he took no notice of them, his mind was too busy with the problem of how he could leave without Dain’s warriors tearing him apart. 

He was so busy puzzling this out that he almost missed Ori’s words.

“Dori thinks that though this storm might blow itself out here, the snow will close the pass over the Misty Mountains. I only hope the ravens managed to get through to the Blue Mountains.”

Bilbo heard Nori chuckle, and say something about enough supplies to last until spring, but he wasn’t concentrating on that. His mind was clogged with the thought that he would never survive the snow if he attempted to leave now, and a single, lonely tear forced its way out from under his eyelashes to trail wetly down his cheek.

 

 

 

 


End file.
